


Down to a Sunless Sea

by coffeecocoatea_me (thehighwaywoman), thehighwaywoman



Series: Down to a Sunless Sea [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Thor (Movies)
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe, Depression is just the utterest of suck, Dreams vs. Reality, I really haven't abandoned this, Loki/Fandral (Freeform), M/M, Mpreg, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Steve Feels, Would it be weird to write more of it after a year's hiatus?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-30
Updated: 2015-11-10
Packaged: 2018-02-11 02:28:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 22,674
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2049912
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thehighwaywoman/pseuds/coffeecocoatea_me, https://archiveofourown.org/users/thehighwaywoman/pseuds/thehighwaywoman
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He's dreaming, and he'll wake up soon to the smell of coffee brewing drip by drip. He has no idea how. All he had to do was feed the fresh-roasted beans Clint gave him in one end and that's it. He doesn't even add water. It's attached to the sink somehow. His own sink, with all the fresh cold/hot he wants at the twist of a wrist.</p><p>Time was he'd have called that luxury, and it's not that he's ungrateful, not really.  It's just…</p><p>It's just that he's dreaming, and he knows that for damn sure because he's in bed with Bucky, and Bucky is in <i>him</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

It's a dream. Steve knows that.

He's only dreaming. Any minute now he'll wake to the shrill beeps and twangs of the alarm clock, or maybe the traffic rushing past his window; swear to God, the traffic never _ends_ on his street.

He'll wake up soon to the smell of coffee brewing drip by drip. He has no idea how the machine works. Mostly because he hasn't been bothered to care all that much. All he had to do was feed the fresh-roasted beans Clint gave him in one end and that's it. He doesn't even add water. It's attached to the sink somehow. His own sink, with all the fresh cold/hot he wants at the twist of a wrist.

Time was he'd have called that luxury, and it's not that he's ungrateful, not really. It's just…

It's just that he's dreaming, and he knows that for damn sure because he's in bed with Bucky, and Bucky is in _him_.

"Shh, now, shh," Bucky says, his lips against Steve's ear and his hand over Steve's mouth. Steve remembers this -- sort of -- they never were like _this_ , though not for lack of wishing on his part, but he remembers the bedsprings and the way the rusty springs screamed louder than any dame could hope for. "Shh, now. You know I'll take care of you. Gonna make it so good, Steve."

His hips roll, and all Steve can do is wrap his arms around Bucky's back -- they fit, they fit just right -- and hold on. He buries his face against Bucky's shoulder, partly to keep himself quiet like Bucky asked, and partly so he doesn't have to look and be reminded that it's only a dream.

Because if it were real, God, _God_.

He feels so -- It's not that Steve doesn't know the body on top of him. They saw each other naked how many times, just living out of one another's pockets? And not all of those times were flaccid. They'd stayed warm in the winter as best as they knew how, and body heat's not worth as much if there's layers of clothing in the way. He'd been the right size to play Teddy and he hadn't minded, not once --

_(especially the times he woke up hard and Bucky woke up hard and he thought maybe this time, maybe, but it never was)_

\-- but it feels different, is the point, like his dream is exaggerating all the lurid details for his pleasure. Which is nice, for an anthropomorphized dream, but it doesn't have to. Just this is plenty.

Except he really is big. Steve only notices, he thinks, because he's vaguely aware that he's small (again, pre-serum small, skinny as a rail) and Bucky covers him, blankets him, makes him safe and sound. The world might be a cold, cruel place, but he's got this and he's just fine.

He makes a heck of a mess between them when he comes, spit-drops smearing between their bellies, and wonders if that means seventy-odd years from now he's made a mess of his sheets, but it _feels_ \-- "Sorry, Buck, I'm--"

But Bucky just laughs. Still quiet, rumblepurr warm against his ear. He wipes the come away with one hand, then nuzzles the patch of hair above Steve's temple like he's a cat catching Steve's scent -- and that's nice, that's so nice that Steve forgets, and tilts his head back to give Bucky more room to work.

Bucky's getting close, he thinks, and that's good and bad at the same time. Good because he _wants_ it, wants to feel Bucky come inside him, get him messy and dirty and make him his, but come on. Dreams usually quit before the first orgasm. Asking for two is just pushing his luck.

Steve hangs on anyway, and hopes, and -- because he never did know when to quit -- uses his teeth on Bucky's shoulder. Just a nibble, just a nip. A taste. Salty-sweat and clean. Must have washed before he came to bed.

It's only a tease. Nothing he hadn't seen Bucky do to some of the naughtier ladies he took on a spin around the dance floor, but this is a dream, and dreams have their own logic. Must do, because Bucky swears under his breath sharp-fast and stops moving. Stops breathing, nearly, which means Steve does too, his eyes wide.

"Buck?"

Bucky shuts his eyes hard and drops his head against Steve's chest, his teeth at Steve's collarbone in a love bite that's almost too hard to feel good. Steve doesn't _think_ he came, and he's just about to reach for Bucky to find out for himself when Bucky shudders once and his lungs start up again. "Careful," he says, laying a light slap on Steve's hip. "Almost lost it there."

Steve doesn't know what to say. There's no condom. He did notice that. Well, there wouldn't be, would there? His old body could count among its many flaws a serious allergy to latex and the stink of rubber had made his stomach roil. Which he only knew because he'd gotten sick after he'd bought a Merry Widow based on the thinnest, wildest of hopes for _someday-maybe_ and been curious enough to open it, and there had gone that plan. 

In the end he goes with "Sorry?" because it's his best of no other options.

"S'okay," Bucky murmurs. He's moving again, but in the wrong direction, taking himself in hand and pulling out. Steve misses him already, empty where he should be full, but he only gets another warning tap when he tries to hook Bucky's leg with one knee. "Gotta be careful, that's all. You know that, doll. Gotta be so careful. I promised."

Steve's still lost, but… Does it matter? Not for any reason he can think of, so when Bucky guides his hand he's grateful to wrap it around the shaft and help him stroke the rest of it out. 

He uses _his_ teeth when he comes, thick and heavy enough to draw fingertips through like paint if he were so inclined, and this time Steve's the one left at a loss for breath. Sweating, too, like he would after a good run. Like they're at war again, just come off a successful mission, crashing down together in a foxhole and laughing like crazy people.

He's laughing now, come to it, stifled behind one hand. Sounds like hiccups.

"Hey, you poking fun at me? God, if I didn't know you always get dopey after…" Bucky rolls his eyes, but Steve couldn't care less on account of he's flushed rosy-red from sex, damp hair stuck to his forehead, and his lips are pink and plush from kissing. Because it's a dream, which means he _can_ , Steve quits laughing long enough to arch his neck up and kiss Bucky again.

One to remember.

"A kiss to build a dream on," he says seriously when he's done. He can't remember just then if Louis Armstrong was before or after, but it doesn't matter. He makes sense to himself.

Seems Bucky doesn't mind either. "Such a mook," he says, one hand resting on Steve's chest. The span of his fingers covers from nipple to nipple. He worries at his lip for a moment, looking oddly regretful and wishful, then sighs. "Don't do that again, huh? Not the kissing, you can do that all night if you want, I mean the…you know, before."

Steve runs back through his recent memories -- this is a _good_ dream -- and the sum total doesn't make sense. "The…" and okay, he can't say the words any more than Bucky can, despite having just done the deed. He resorts to joking instead. "Oh, _that_." It still doesn't matter, and Bucky's looking unhappy now, so Steve mentally shrugs. "Yeah, no problem."

"Don't want to knock you up, after all," Bucky says. His hand drifts down to cover Steve's stomach. He's oddly serious, and almost…regretful? "I made a promise, and I mean to keep it. Okay?" 

It's a dream. Dreams don't have to make sense. Steve smoothes back Bucky's hair, nods, and lets it go.

"Attaboy." Bucky catches Steve's hand, the left one, and presses it to his lips. His thumb is on Steve's third finger, and that's important but Steve doesn't know that just yet. 

Not until Bucky lifts his hand for a closer look, and frowns. "Hey, where's the -- you lose it again?"

Steve's not sure what he means, but the worried light in Bucky's eyes makes him curl his fingers closed and say, stumbling, "I--I--"

"Skinny," Bucky scolds with a click of his tongue. "Swear we need to get you a chain or something to keep it safe if it's gonna keep falling off. Bet I know where it went, hang on--"

And there he goes, his legs still bracketing Steve's but his upper half diving over the side of the bed--the old iron frame Steve remembers, in their old apartment, on their old block, back in his _real life_ , and--

Steve makes himself stop. His ninety-pound self might have an asthma attack. He doesn't want the dream to end that way.

Bucky's still fishing about, hasn't noticed a thing. "Buck?" he calls, careful to be quiet. He ruffles up the short hairs at Bucky's nape. "What're you doing?"

"What do you think?" Bucky fires back, and then -- " _Ha_. Knew it." 

He pops back up, blowing a puff of dust off a thing held carefully between thumb and forefinger. It doesn't sparkle, or gleam, and that's how Steve doesn't recognize it at first. 

Only when Bucky slides it on his finger, cheapest Woolworth tin, does Steve have the name for it.

"There," he says, pleased as punch, twice as proud. He laces the fingers of his left hand with Steve's. His ring is exactly the same, with a scratch through the middle. "Keep an eye out for that, doll. I like to see it there, letting everybody know you're my mister."

Steve's -- he had to have misunderstood that. No other explanation. "I -- what?"

"Steve. Knock it off." Bucky's lips touch his. "Think you can get some rest now? We got work to do tomorrow."

Steve touches his tongue to his lip, tasting Bucky's kiss. "Yeah. Yeah, no problem," he says. "Hey, Buck. Something I never got to say, and I figure I might as well now." He takes a deep breath. "You know I love you, right?"

And Bucky grins. Casually, like it's no big deal. He rolls off and tucks himself next to Steve, already half asleep. "Yeah, 'course I know. Just like always. You and me against the world, right?"

"Yeah," Steve says. His head is spinning. "Buck, this isn't--"

 

And then the dream does exactly what dreams are supposed to do, jolting him sideways at the worst possible moment.

Steve wakes up. 

He's in his apartment. It's 2014. 

He knows that without having to look, or to listen to the cars, or to smell the coffee already brewing.

He'd swear he hears someone murmur, "Such a shame." It's so clear that he pivots roundabout fast enough to nearly knock himself on the floor. Wouldn't matter if he could get eyes on whoever --

Only there's no one to see. Just a fading whisper, and a length of shining thread on the windowsill.

And a mark on his collar bone, where Bucky's mouth had been.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Steve goes looking for answers, but questions find him first.

“And another one in the books. Next time I’m sending a lion tamer. And grenades,” Maria Hill grumbles after a briefing that ended about as well as could be expected. She’s prosaically stacking discarded notes and putting labels on them Steve could read upside down if he wanted, but chooses not to. Her handwriting's as neat as copperplate. She nods up at Steve, understandably curious. He doesn’t often stick around. “Something you needed, Rogers?”

 _Yes_ , is what Steve thinks.

“Nah. I’m fine, thanks,” is what Steve says. 

“Are you sure? You look a little…" She taps underneath her eye to indicate he’s got dark shadows there. 

Steve holds back a yawn. "Didn't get a lot of sleep last night. I'm fine."

Hasn’t gotten a lot of sleep for a few nights now. Actually none, for four days. Pushing five. He tells himself it won't kill him. It's not particularly pleasant given the demands of his metabolism, but he'll live, and better to yawn every now and then than open himself up to another dream incursion.

Because while Steve Rogers may be many things, none of them is an idiot.

He’ll admit it says a heck of a lot about his life that there's more than one possible agitator who could have sent him that dream, but only one name shoots to the top of that list like a bullet on fire. As Steve understands, Loki's meant to be under heavy restraints on Asgard. Locked away. It's probably true. But the way Steve figures it, anyone who thinks that'll really keep Loki from doing exactly what he feels like doesn't know the guy very well.

Finding him, though. That's not as easy as it sounds. Especially not without sending up all kinds of red flags.

Ms. Hill is still waiting. Starting to look at him as if she's doubting his sanity. She's not the only one.

"I'm fine. Cross my heart." He rubs at the back of his neck, something he remembers Bucky doing when he wanted to come across as particularly _aw-shucks_ for the ladies. He's not sure it works on her -- she's probably immune to any tricks -- but she rolls her eyes tolerantly and takes the pressure off, so there's that. "I was wondering, though. Any word on Thor?"

Start simple, is the plan. Low key. As few details made public as possible. If he can find Thor, he won't have to say much at all. _I think your brother's playing a trick on me, and I want him to stop_ should do the job. Thor likely won't push too hard to find out what the trick is, even. He'll just get his hammer out and Steve will go on the hunt with him. They’ll get to work, and --

See, it’s not being tricked that bothers him. Not as such. Loki’s done worse since Steve’s known him. He can’t complain about just himself. And neither is he particularly ashamed of anything besides the neediness that dream made him feel. 

It's just -- Bucky is personal. Those feelings he had _(still has_ ) are private. They're his own, and there isn't a lot he can lay _just-mine_ claim to these days but his memories.

Now it seems like not even that's true, and it's the straw that broke the camel's back.

"--Steve," Hill says. "Captain Rogers. Are you with me?" She waves one hand in front of his face. Steve has the feeling it's not for the first time. Her mild concern has morphed into full-blown worry, or what passes for the expression on a professional’s public persona. Mostly it's in the eyebrows.

"Sorry, ma'am." Steve realizes halfway there that he's fallen into parade rest, but he doesn't course-correct. "Could you repeat the question?"

"I could, but I'm honestly not sure it's worth the effort. How much trouble have you been having getting a good night's rest?"

She’s almost being nice, and Steve can't take that.

“It’s not connected,” he lies. He doesn’t like to but he does know how. Bucky taught him back when they were kids. “I bought an extra ticket to a baseball game and thought if Thor was going to be in town soon he might want to come along, that’s all. Seems like the sort of thing he’d enjoy. I promise I'll get some sleep tonight. Okay?"

Hill looks like she believes him even less now, but she taps her stack of notes together with a decisive _click_ and then lays then flat, folding her hands above them. Reminds him of the Sisters back in the orphanage. "Okay," she says. “If you can keep that promise, come back tomorrow and ask me about scheduling a meeting with Thor then. If you still need to. If it's not an emergency. If the status changes, contact me. Understood? Good. Dismissed, Captain."

He can hear Bucky whistle in his memory. _One hell of a dame_ , he might say. She's got skills. It’s not what Steve wanted, but after getting its marching orders Steve’s body turns him around and takes him three steps out before his brain catches up. 

Heck with it. He lets the body take over. Just easier that way.

God, he's tired. 

He compromises with himself on taking a taxi back home from headquarters. Best not to risk the subway, and he could make it on foot but he'd hate himself tomorrow. He slides in the back seat, nodding to the driver while saying, "Brooklyn."

“Yeah, no problem,” says the driver. Steve gives him a good sixty seconds of careful monitoring just in case, but the guy doesn’t do anything more exciting or maniacal than cut off a Buick trying to edge into a passing lane. He’s middle-forties, pudgy around the waist, and has a bald spot covering most of the back of his head. His taxi smells like cheap incense and it’s surprisingly warm, and the seats look like they’ve been recently vacuumed. Comfortable.

He’s tempted to take a nap — four days without sleep is harder on him than he remembers — but that would be such a bad idea. 

Not because he's afraid. That's the farthest thing from the truth. It's because he _wants_ it, so much that he might never come back if he got the chance. The way Bucky looked at him, held him, kissed him, loved him. Those were the best parts. Addictive. One taste isn’t enough. He's afraid of what he might do to stay there, and a hundred percent certain that if they are dealing with Loki, he’ll know exactly that. Even the bits that made no fucking sense must have had some design to them. 

Didn’t want to knock him up? Bucky’s dream voice rattles around inside his head, saying that over and over until it’s all he can think of when he loses focus. Steve has no idea what that was supposed to mean, but… 

Or, okay, he does. He just can’t wrap his head around it and believe him, he’s been trying. Ceasing to try is more the problem.

He just can't move his head past the thought. Wouldn’t that be one heck of a world, where things like that could happen? 

Bucky would have busted his buttons over being a papa. Right after he fainted. Steve laughs quietly to himself, not loud enough to pique the cabbie’s interest. He’s met flying men and Norse gods and he can’t forget about Schmidt, but men carrying babies? It’s ridiculous to even consider. It just doesn’t work that way.

And yet. And yet, and yet…

It’s tempting. It’s fantastic, in the old-fashioned sense of the world. _Fantasy_. Staring out the window in the icy rain, not-seeing anything of the streets around him, Steve finds he’s rested his hand on his stomach and let himself imagine, for one bright-hot second, what it would be like if it was rounded, not flat with muscle as it is now, concave as it had been. Full and fertile. Bucky’s kid moving under his hand.

His body’s reaction hits so much harder than he’d thought it might. He’s hard, right away, like a punch to the gut that makes him grunt behind gritted teeth. Harder than he remembers being in the dream. Like someone pulled a switch marked _fuck_. 

Eyes drifting closed, he loses himself in the image of bare skin stretched tight. Of himself in bed, but not alone. The lights are low, and his mental landscape is that of their old apartment. He can almost feel Bucky’s lips against his shoulder — the light puff of his breath as he kisses down Steve’s nape, across his shoulders — he can smell tomatoes stewing and hear the neighbors fighting, a real game broadcasting on a real radio. Brooklyn like it used to be, with Bucky whispering things that he can’t make out and that don’t make sense in his ear, a heady tickle that makes him almost dizzy.

It never happened, and some of this he never imagined happening even back then because _it isn’t possible_ , but —

His hand moves across his abdomen, kneading at the smooth skin. The sleekness of it perversely irritates him, like an inverse itch that he’d have to tear open to really scratch. If he puts a hand any lower than his gut, even on his thigh, he’ll come in his pants. 

He has to make an effort to slow his breathing. It takes a while. 

The cab’s too quiet as the driver pulls over. It’s a little odd. Most cabbies play their radio, or shout at traffic, but not this one. He looks almost as tired as Steve feels.

But not someone Steve wants to share his problems with, so he bites his lip, and pushes the thought away. He’s home, anyway. Home safe, and tomorrow is another day. He’ll try calling Jane Foster. She’s busy building bridges to the stars, but on the other hand she’s never struck him as the pushy type. Probably should have tried her in the first place.

He digs in his wallet when the cabbie pointedly, unimpressed by his passenger, clears his throat. The price he quotes is enough to make Steve wince, but he’s almost getting used to that. All he has is two fifties and he’s too worn-out to remember the value of a dollar, so he presses them both on the man. “Keep the change.”

“Thanks for that,” the driver says. “Tell you what, I’ll give you a tip, too. Or is that ‘trip’? Or perhaps it’s ‘wish fulfillment’. You did make a promise to the lovely Ms. Hill, after all.” He turns to look at Steve over one shoulder, and his face is the same bland-cabbie but his eyes are such a cat green that Steve curses out loud, dirty as a sailor. 

He makes a grab, but too late, and that son of a bitch is fast. His fist closes around nothingness a second after the world goes black.

“Why are you doing this?” he shouts into the darkness. “Just tell me why!”

He thinks he hears a baby crying in the dark, but he can’t be sure, and then it’s gone and he’s…

Home. A street he knows is engraved in his heart, and the sun overhead is as bright and warm as honey dripping from the comb. He’s in Brooklyn, and it’s 1941.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In no particular order, except the first one which really should come first:
> 
> Oh my gosh, you guys with the kudos! Seriously, thank you. I’m so glad you’re enjoying this.
> 
> I'm playing just a bit fast and loose with MCU timelines, but this goes more or less AU about halfway into “The Dark World”.
> 
> As always, con-crit is gladly accepted, as is pointing out typos, errors, or things that need to be tagged. Or just chatting about omegaverse or SteveandBucky or what-have-you. I’m easy.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Steve reaffirms that there's no place like home. Even when it isn't _really_.

Here’s a fact Steve’s noticed, both now and then: no one is ever satisfied with what they’ve got, and nobody ever realizes the value of what they’ve got until it’s gone. He knows he’s as guilty of the character flaw as anyone else. Maybe more so. 

The first thing he does in this—dream world? Alternate reality?—is cough. 

It's the surprise of it more than anything else. The air is warm, sunlight showering down on his back when he bends over with the force of the chest-deep spasms—and okay, it's partly down to the smell. Anyone who thinks modern cities have a lock on pollution-stink wasn't around for the years of one bathroom per apartment _floor_ (for the lucky ones) and a cigarette in everyone's mouth as they walk past.

At least he recovers faster than he used to. There’s that. 

He looks at his skinny forearms, attached to skinnier wrists and small hands that would be delicate if he hadn’t banged the knuckles up good and proper after years of fist fights. Pipestem legs, feet almost comically oversized. He’s wearing a pair of shoes he remembers, one he’s almost positive Bucky stole for him though he claimed to have won them at a back-room poker game. Steve recalls how he gave Bucky a skeptical look that lasted nearly a minute, but he laced them on and didn’t ask questions beyond that. A good pair of shoes with a sturdy sole and tight seams were nothing to sneeze at. Pants, shirt, even the way his hair is combed—all familiar. He’d bet if he took a peek he’d find his underwear even had the right pattern of wash-worn thinness.

Give credit where credit is due. Whether it’s from mining his memories or subconscious or just being that detail-oriented, Loki’s got the duplication of minutiae down to a science.

He’s still a little horny, he realizes with a dull flush of embarrassment. Nothing near as intense as it’d been in the taxi. Just a low-level thrumming in his veins, a sense of heat and arousal. Kind of like his body’s sure it’s going to get lucky within the next few hours and it’s just keeping the motor running for him while it waits. When he swallows, his throat is tight and he thinks he’s thirsty, but not for water.

It’s strange. And it’s _definitely_ Loki’s sense of humor, because as he’s standing stock-still in the middle of a Brooklyn sidewalk that looks so much like the real thing he almost can’t believe it _isn’t_ genuine, a nun crosses his path just in time to stumble on the broken pavement and nearly drop a double armful of packages wrapped in paper and twine.

The instinct to catch her by the elbow is too strong to ignore, and Steve’s done it before he realized he was on the move. He blinks at that, because he had spirit but not reflexes back in the day. Did Loki slip up somehow?

Only there’s no time to really puzzle it out, because he knows this nun. She all but ran the orphanage before he and Bucky left. “Sister Theresa?”

That familiar face breaks into a gentle smile. God. Steve almost crosses himself. Old habits die hard, and she looks _exactly_ the way he remembers her. No nonsense, and don’t cross her, but prove you’re a sensible boy with a spirit of charity and she’ll fight for you until the bitter end. She’d been the one to ignore the priest’s stern lectures on vanity and slip Steve pencils and paper to sketch with. 

“You’ve been given a gift,” he remembered her saying. “It would be more of a sin to waste that gift than to call it work for idle hands. So long as you don’t forget to sweep the stairs too, young man!”

“Sister Theresa,” he says again, his stomach churning. He’d never known what happened to her. Someone from the neighborhood thought it’d been tuberculosis.

“Steven,” she says, light and kind—then, frowning slightly, “Are you well?”

“What? Oh—fine, Sister. Just fine.” He can’t let her go yet. Even if she’s just pretend, she— Steve sees his opportunity. “Let me carry those for you. Are you headed back to St. Michael’s?”

Sister Theresa holds back just long enough to prove she doesn’t need the help, but she appreciates the offer all the same. “I might have known you’d ask,” she says, resettling what looks like a doctor’s satchel in her now-free right hand. That’s interesting—different—and he makes a note of it. The Sister Theresa he knew had a good working knowledge of first aid, but she didn’t go out into the community. Another alteration. Is there a reason? 

“Almost a full working day apart,” Sister Theresa goes on. “Well done.”

And Steve— doesn’t know what she means, but he _thinks_ she’s teasing. He tries a smile, and as thanks she lays her hand on his elbow so he can escort her like a gentleman. She smells like laundry starch, Ivory soap, and comfort.

“What have you got in here, rocks?” he tries to joke as he rebalances the pile of packages, because otherwise he might break down and bawl. They’re heavy. Nothing he can’t handle, but significant. “Boulders? Potatoes?”

“Stew bones. And potatoes, yes. Times have been hard, but God is good. There are still potatoes enough to need peeling." She pats his arm. "Come along. If you’d like to earn some extra money I wouldn’t object to your helping polish the chapel, or you can wait for James in the kitchen."

“I—what?”

Sister Theresa chuckles. He always used to like that about her, the way she claimed a sense of humor was both a gift and a trial given to her. “Having no personal experience to compare this to, I have noticed that honeymooners never did care to be separated.”

Steve’s face burns hot. “ _Sister_ —”

She cuts him an unamused look, softened by another gentle pat on his elbow. “Love is never anything to be ashamed about or embarrassed of, Steven. I hope you understand that.”

“Yes—uh, yes ma’am. Sister.” His ears are going to burst into flame, he’s sure of it. When he flexes his fingers, he can feel Bucky’s five-and-dime tin ring making a mark on his skin. “But…”

“But, but, but,” she says, clearly done with this. Steve has the oddest thought that Natasha would love her. “Come along. We’ll waste no more time, thank you.”

And—when a nun tells you to get moving, you move. Especially if you’re Steve Rogers, and even if you have question marks bristling over your head. You get the lead out, soldier.

_________________

 

The orphanage looks different, too. Subtle changes, mostly. It’s brighter, more open and airy. Some of the nuns argued for the health benefits of fresh air way-back-when, but they tended to get frowned upon. Looks like they were more successful. Sunlight pours through into the small but sparkling-clean foreyard, where Steve used to either play cops and robbers when he was well enough or get the snot pounded out of him, depending on the day.

Bucky’s there, carrying a broom and dustpan tied together over one shoulder. His face is smudged with soot and he stinks like a stevedore, sharp iron and bitter coal and the sweat from a hard day’s work. His hair is just on the wrong side of need-a-haircut, tangled, but he’s not as wiry as Steve remembers and he’s not white with exhaustion because the stupid jerk always tried to short himself on meals to let Steve have more. He looks healthy, and happy, and he’s—

Steve doesn’t remember what he wanted to say, or think, because when Bucky sees him he lights _up_ , a blazing grin like Steve hasn’t seen in years and years, muted during the war, and he’s holding his arm out for Steve to duck into.

And he does. God, he does. Forgets the nun and everything, and the squishy-messy pile of packages in his arms. He goes to Bucky like there’s magnets on their chests demanding they fly together. Crashes into him, balancing everything in one arm so he can loop the other around Bucky’s neck, and oh, he’s being kissed. Bucky’s mouth is warm and sweet, and he’s laughing.

Steve doesn’t care who might be watching. Doesn’t give a damn that this is all an elaborate joke from a troublemaking trickster. It _feels_ so real. It’s what he feared most, but right now he can’t think of anything else. 

Even if he never had this in the real world, he missed it.

Bucky presses his nose beneath Steve’s ear and breathes in, like he’s catching Steve’s scent. The low-level arousal ratchets up another notch, and Steve tilts his head to give Bucky room. “Take it easy, doll,” Bucky murmurs for him alone to hear. His arm goes around Steve’s waist, holding him tight. “You’ve got me. I’m not going anywhere. We’ve got all the time in the world, you and me.”

They don’t, Steve knows. They really don’t. He needs to be on his way, working to track down Loki, and…

 _Later_ , he thinks helplessly, wanting just one more kiss. One more taste.

Sister Theresa’s watching them with an amused sort of tolerant patience that makes Steve’s head spin. “Make sure you come in early tomorrow,” she says. “Steven, if you would please leave the packages in the kitchen before you go.”

Nuns approve of this. As best as Steve can tell, this particular nun is giving them permission to take off early and go be—be married. What the _hell_. 

Bucky doesn’t notice anything odd. He only laughs again, a fond chuckle, and takes Steve by the arm. “Yeah, okay, Sister. I’ll take care of it,” he says, giving Steve a shoulder hug. “Don’t worry. I’ve got him.”

“See that you keep it that way,” Sister Theresa says before deliberately turning her back on them.

When Bucky kisses him this time, it’s not the same as before. It’s sleek tongue and parting lips, and it doesn’t stop until Steve’s dizzy with it and ready to drop everything he holds. All of it. 

“Jeez, Buck,” he says, catching his breath.

“Missed you, that’s all.” Bucky shrugs as if it’s no big thing, but his eyes have gone dark and Steve remembers what that particular quirk of well-kissed lips looks like, means, hints at. He’s sure of it when Bucky takes him by the lapel and draws a finger down his chest. “Want to get outta here? Have a night in?”

Steve…knows it’s a bad idea. So bad. He’s only going to break his own heart when he has to leave, but…

He doesn’t let that stop him. Not now. He _wants_ and he can’t think of anything else, and it’s as if that _need_ answers for him, roaring into life under Bucky’s hands. Like a fever. More than. His mouth waters for a taste, and now he knows what it is he craves. He can fight anyone in the world—the real world—the world that he should be trying to get back to, but he can’t fight this.

With the awful/wonderful sense of tipping over a cliff, he thinks— _even if it is a trick, I could have this, just once_. 

“Yes,” he says, lifting his chin. “I want that. Let’s go.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sister Theresa is named for an ex-nun who used to live down the block from me. Tough, tough lady. She’d taken to sculpting male nudes in her retirement. I adored her. She’s mentally based on the character of “Sister Julienne“ from _Call the Midwife_ —not to crossover extent, but as I discovered Jenny Agutter is actually in the movies as a Council member so hey, yay synchronicity.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He's hard before they make it two blocks. The _need_ he'd felt in the taxi is rising up again, burning hotter. His skin is too hot and too tight all over, and there's the strangest pulses running through his chest and stomach. Almost like coming, but slower, warmer, bubbling through him.

They don't hold hands as they walk through the streets. Bucky doesn't even put his arm around Steve's shoulder. Even so, Steve can feel the way Bucky watches him. It's familiar--it's the way Bucky always kept an eye out--but at the same time it's wholly different in the way he's come to expect from the dream world. Being watched like this is like being undressed with every step he takes.

He's hard before they make it two blocks. Bucky laughs at him, but comes close enough to murmur in Steve's ear--while they're in the middle of a crowd, for Pete's sake-- "Me too. Just lookin' at you. Thinking about getting you home and getting down on my knees for you, I could pop right here."

"Jeezus, Buck," Steve complains, sure he's bright red. The _need_ he'd felt in the taxi is rising up again, burning hotter. His skin is too hot and too tight all over, and there's the strangest pulses running through his chest and stomach. Almost like coming, but slower, warmer, bubbling through him.

Watching him, Bucky whistles under his breath. "Damn. You need taking care of, don't you?"

"God, Bucky, _shut up_." Or he'll come in his pants.

Bucky laughs, nudges their shoulders together and says, "You look good when you're all worked up."

Steve aims a swat at him and misses, but the look Bucky gives him over his shoulder is like being kissed right there, right then, in front of the world. How no one seems to notice or give a damn is beyond him.

But they don't. No one bats an eyelash. It's bizarre.

 

Their apartment is the same-but-different as Steve remembers before. Fewer blankets on the bed--they must be getting on toward springtime in this dream world. Maybe two months have gone by since he was here last, he'd guess. It makes sense. He's not up on his science fiction, but he remembers fairy stories about how time passed differently if the elves got you. One day could be as long as a thousand years.

By that reckoning, two months is small change.

Bucky has him pressed up against the door as soon as it's shut behind them. He lifts Steve's chin and kisses him, deep and long, with a nip at the corner of his mouth when he stops for breath. "There," he said, satisfaction evident. "Wanted to do that all the way home."

"Yeah? I didn't notice."

"Wise guy."

Steve winds his arms around Bucky's neck. Partly because he _can_ , and partly for balance. Bucky laughs, and slaps an arm under his ass to lift him. When Steve squawks indignantly, he only laughs louder. "Hey, if you want to climb me, what am I supposed to do?"

"Put me down!"

"Put you down, you say?" Bucky's eyes sparkle this close up, and Steve _knows_ that look. He yelps, prepared to be tossed on the bed like a rag doll--which would be okay, as long as Bucky follows him--but no. It's gentler than that. Bucky carries him like a bride, light as a feather, and lays him down.

 _Then_ he jumps, so that when he lands, Steve's laughing instead of giving him the stinkeye.

"You did that on purpose," he says, already busy helping Bucky undo their buttons, push everything down out of the way. 

"Damn right."

"Good. Don't stop." He's hard, so hard, and he almost sobs with relief when their clothes are gone and he's got room to move. He thrusts his hips up, into the solid contact that Bucky provides, and that's so good that he does it again.

"Whoa, whoa, easy, slow down," Bucky chides, even as he guides their bodies closer and tighter together, as his breath goes rough, and his cock wet against Steve's belly. "What's the hurry? There's time."

"Not enough time. Trust me on that." Steve swallows hard, not sure if he's got the guts for this, but he _wants_ so much that--that he does it anyway. Spreads his legs and hooks his ankles around Bucky's thighs. The jolt of sensation makes him dizzy, makes his head go around in circles. He rocks his hips up. "Fuck me," he says in Bucky's ear, fiercely pleased by making him draw in a sharp breath. "Fuck me and don't stop until I say."

Bucky--groans--and doesn't move. "Steve, you're killing me. God. No."

And that's not what Steve expected. He pulls his head back to try and get a look at Bucky's face. "What?"

"Not this time." Bucky tucks loose strands of hair behind Steve's ear, then presses hot little open-mouthed kisses to the skin beneath, down Steve's neck. He's at Steve's collarbone, well away from eye contact when he says--more like admits-- "No way I could make myself stop when I need to. Not when you're like this."

And that's--enough. Steve groans as he takes Bucky's nape in hand and _makes_ him look up. "You keep saying that."

Bucky's jaw hardens, but he meets Steve's eyes and after a moment he sighs. He strokes over Steve's stomach. "Because it's true. What do you want me to say, Steve? Huh? I know you want it. Hell, I want it more than I can think about, sometimes, but--" 

He sits up. Kneels up, rather, braced over Steve, and now it's him making Steve look. Steve doesn't like what he sees. He's never been good at watching Bucky struggle. 

But Buck's as stubborn as ever, and he goes on. Takes Steve's hand in his, knocking their rings together, and says, "You're better now. And that's good, but if you got knocked up… Hell, Steve. You wouldn't live through that, and you know it. You're still too damn skinny, and so small, and your heart…" He growls and pushes a hand through is hair, churning it all up, begging Steve to understand. "Sister Theresa even talked to me about it before she agreed to let me marry you, let me take you off being a ward of the Church. She told me everything. How people twice your size have a hard time. So I've got to be careful. Okay? Because if I lost you, then swear to God I don't know what I'd do. Throw myself off a bridge, for a start, or--"

" _Don't_ ," Steve says, sitting upright with a shock that goes through him like ice water. Every time he forgets to keep it locked away back in the real world, he sees that damned train, and hears Bucky's scream as he's falling, falling, and the thought makes his stomach turn, makes him want to bring up everything he's eaten. 

Bucky doesn't let him go. His face is white from the strain. "I won't if you won't. Okay?"

Steve shakes his head from side to side on the pillow, his head busy as a hive full of bees. It just doesn't--but Bucky believes it, so maybe in this world--what's Loki doing with this kind of--he _feels_ healthier, so maybe they could try using rubbers and the latex allergy wouldn't be an insurmountable problem in the dream world--

But in the end he can't make the pieces come together. Slowly, slowly, he lies back down. Touches Bucky's face, holds it in the palm of his hand, until the tight stress fades, until Bucky shuts his eyes and turns to press his lips to Steve's palm.

"Okay," Steve says. "I promise. Okay."

He reaches between them to take Bucky in hand, because that much is still okay, and because his lips are cold for the lack of a kiss. So is the rest of him, and it's infinitely better when Bucky exhales long and slow, and eases back down on top of Steve. 

"Love you too much," he mumbles between presses of his mouth. His big hand joins Steve's, knuckles knocking together as they work each other. Not as urgent, but no less hungry. "Can't lose you."

"I can't lose you either," Steve says, then presses his teeth into his own lip. "Bucky--"

"Shut up." Bucky takes over, his hand big enough to dwarf Steve's. He has his face pressed hard to the side of Steve's neck, and he's jerking them both too fast, too rough, too hard. It almost hurts, but it's right in a way that gentle wouldn't be. "Shut up," he says again, muffled and thick. "Shut _up_."

And--Steve understands, somehow, the way he could usually tell what Bucky needed, and hear what Bucky wasn't saying. It's all coming back to him, and Bucky needs _this_ , and Steve can let him have it. 

He winds both arms around Bucky, only just able to wrap all the way over his back, and lets Bucky rest his head on his chest. Brushes his fingers through Bucky's hair, and hushes him until he's still.

And he tells the hunger still burning inside him, _no_ until it ebbs. It doesn't go away, but he controls it for now. It'll have to be good enough.

"It's okay," he says when Bucky stops muttering. His heart aches. Bucky doesn't deny a thing that much or that hard unless he truly wants it. Whatever the reasoning behind the way this dream world is set up, okay: men can get pregnant, or at least men like Steve can, and Bucky loves him enough not to risk him. His body wants it, but their brains are supposed to know better.

He's done a lot worse for less worthy reasons.

"Shh, now," he says, rubbing Bucky's shoulders. "It's okay, Buck. Shh. Hush. It's all right."

 

"Stay there," he tells Bucky later. How much later, Steve's not sure. Could be thirty minutes or an hour. He hasn't dozed off, but Bucky's been in and out. Long enough to realize he needs to piss, and no matter what they've just done he'd still like privacy for some things, thank you.

Bucky gets up anyway, pushing the quilt that he'd dragged over them off onto the floor. He snickers when Steve shoots him a dirty look for that, so pleased he feels tears prickling behind his eyes. Bucky always did that, no matter how Steve scolded him, when they slept together just for the warmth. Who'd end up washing them, he'd ask, and Bucky would trap him under the covers and fart like a horse.

He spares Steve that indignity this time. Thanks be for small mercies, Steve supposes. He tousles Steve's hair instead, saying, "Nah. Never did have dinner, and I got an appetite now. You want a sandwich?"

Steve blinks. "You--I mean we--have stuff here for that?" Because they almost never did. Potatoes or beans, but for a real sandwich they saved up and went to a deli for a treat. 

"Sure. I think there's even some butter." Bucky stands and stretches, arms almost touching the ceiling. He scratches his chest, wholly unselfconscious with his nudity, and his smile at Steve almost takes Steve's breath away. "You should eat, too. I'll make enough for both of us."

"You always did," Steve says. Except when he tried to make like he'd already eaten--no, promise, I'm full up, it'll just go to waste if you don't have it--when Steve knew good and well Bucky was going without so Steve could have more. "I'm fine."

"Yeah, well," Bucky replies, vaguely enough that Steve knows he's going to do exactly as he pleases and resigns himself to a sandwich stuffed with whatever Bucky can possibly wedge between two pieces of bread.

And that--wouldn't be so bad, really. He's almost curious.

Almost. Because it isn't real, and every time he remembers that, it hurts more than before. This dream version of Bucky is so very real. Steve covers his face so he doesn't have to watch him walk away, and listens until the footsteps stop in their kitchen before he stands.

No signs of waking up yet. Steve frowns, not trusting that.

He takes care of business the way they used to during the cold winters. Their window opens to an alley, and it's one of the less awful things that alley has seen, he's sure of that. Bucky must hear the pane rattling up in its sash. His laugh rings out. "God, you're gonna get arrested for that one day," he calls.

A smile tugs at Steve's face. "Hasn't happened yet. Must be my secret hero power."

Bucky snorts richly. Steve does too, imagining what Tony would say to that. To any of this, really.

He starts to close the window, but when he gets a look at himself, he--stops. _Huh_. It's different than what he expected. _He's_ different. A window pane isn't a mirror, and it's been long enough since he looked at that old face's reflection, but--

Still short. Still slight. That's the same. But… He touches his cheeks. They're rounder. Less pinched. He thinks they have a better color to them than they did. More pink than ivory. He pats his chest, his stomach, and they're almost-but-not-quite. Five pounds extra, he decides. Maybe ten. A little goes a long way on someone this skinny. He's surprised he didn't notice earlier.

And yeah, it's strange, but if they're doing decently enough to have sandwich fixings…well. Now he's thinking back on it, Bucky looked better himself, didn't he? More curl in his hair, and a livelier kick to his step. No patches on his pants. The nuns must pay more than dock workers usually got. More money, more food. 

He's no Captain America, but he looks--healthy. It makes him smile. Go figure, that.

"Hey." As predicted, Bucky's got a peanut-butter sandwich in his hand when he comes around the corner. He tears it in two and tucks half of the half into Steve's mouth, laughing at him when he splutters, and loops a comfortably lazy arm around Steve's waist. "What, you're admiring yourself now? You're pretty enough already. Come back to bed. We'll sleep the afternoon away and go out tonight."

"Yeah," Steve says. He sighs. "Sounds like a plan."

And it does. Logically, anyway. If it makes Bucky happy, and if it means he can soak up more of this, so be it. Maybe if he sleeps, he'll dream. If he dreams, maybe that's his ticket out and back to the real world. 

And maybe he's never going to tell anyone how hard it is for him to remember that's how it should be. That he belongs somewhere else, not all curled up playing little spoon with Bucky, drowning in his warmth and drunk on the smell of bodies that need washing and sheets that need changing.

He stays awake well after Bucky dozes off with one arm wrapped snugly around Steve's middle. Fights sleep with all he's got.

He doesn't admit to himself--deliberately--how much he'd rather _stay_. But it isn't his choice.

There's a long, slow blink.

Steve opens his eyes to daylight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Minor updates made (also in Chapter 1) to explain the condom question. Thanks for asking about that! I like fixing things where I can.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reality is in the eye of the beholder. Sometimes.

He wakes, but not in the world he’s come to know as the “real” one, not 2014 and not coffeemakers and not traffic outside the window. Instead there’s sunlight that’s somehow richer and thicker, like golden syrup, sweet and warm on his skin. The floor beneath his feet looks like heavy slate flagstones fitted so closely together there’s barely a crack of joinery between them. When he breathes in, unfamiliar spices make his nose tingle.

Also, there’s Loki standing by a window loom idly plucking at threads, so you know, that’s a pretty big giveaway.

Though Steve doesn’t speak, he’s not surprised to see that Loki is fully aware Steve’s awake and present. Long pale fingers comb at the warp and weft on the loom as he says, "Some think my mother is a weaver. I always did wonder why. She knows how, but it’s hardly her life’s work.” He tilts his head. “She did teach me. Perhaps that’s the cause.”

Now that he’s here, Steve doesn’t say anything. He crosses his arms and he waits. In his experience, guys like Loki love nothing better than a chance to monologue. Loki likes to surprise them, true, but he’ll give the silent treatment a shot first.

Loki twitches his fingertips as if to concede Steve a minor point in whatever game they’re playing. Playing along the way a cat will bat at a toy mouse. Indulgent because it amuses him, however temporarily. “I am disappointed in you, you know. From all I’m told of you, I had thought you would recognize the taxi driver straight away.”

“Hadn’t gotten much sleep,” Steve says, stone-faced as he can be. “My reflexes weren’t at a hundred percent.”

“Shame.” Loki clicks his tongue. “But look at you now. You’re positively…hmm…I won’t say ‘radiant’ nor ‘ravishing’, but beauty is meant to be in the eye of the beholder.”

Steve glances down at himself. _Huh_. He’d expected to see the serum body, but he doesn’t. Small, slim, pink-and-gold. Still tough, though. “Is this real?”

“Perhaps,” Loki says. He picks up a hank of rough-spun thread that looks as if it was abandoned—come to think of it, the whole room does—and winds the strands around his fingers. “Perhaps not.”

Steve watches him for a moment. There’s something about the way the light passes over him… When he recognizes the effect, he had half expected it, but still sighs. “You’re not really here, are you?”

Loki touches one finger to his temple.

“Am I here?”

“Oh now. You’re winning back points, Captain Rogers.” Loki seats himself next to the loom, still idly playing with the threads. “Do keep going. You may actually get somewhere if you carry on.”

Which—isn’t an answer, but Steve lets that pass. “Then it isn’t real,” he says. “Or is it? The world you dropped me into, is that real? Or is it all a game?”

Loki laughs, a dark and unhappily chipped thing, as he stands with an abrupt jerk and walks past the window. It doesn’t have a glass pane but it shines a reflection back at them all the same. Strangely so. It flickers, rolling slowly with a single ripple that works its way from the outside in, and the inside out. Steve's reflection changes in subtle ways with every cycle. As he was, as he is, as he’s grown accustomed to being.

“What do you know of Asgard?” he asks at last, glancing over his shoulder. “What does my bro— Thor tell you of our history?”

Steve lets the obvious slip pass instead of distracting him, and narrows in on the way he says _history_. “Asgard’s history, or your history?”

“Captain Rogers, you impress me.” Loki makes a fake moue with his lips.

Steve ignores that, too. So he’s on the right track. “Your history, then. Not much. Your brother keeps a pretty stiff upper lip about you. I think maybe because it hurts him to think about how things went so wrong.”

He’s scored a point, he can tell. Loki loses the moue. “Of course he does. That would be him all over, wouldn’t it? Is this real? Yes and no. Everything is as real as we wish it to be.” He catches Steve’s wrist, taking him by surprise—the guy is _fast_ —and lays a long, shining thread across Steve's palm. 

Steve flinches--instinct--and his fist closes.

The thread is real. He can feel the coarseness of the wool that made it. It smells of lanolin. 

"Sometimes, that is,” Loki adds silkily as he turns away.

Steve tightens his hand around the thread. “That’s not enough of an answer."

Loki raises one shoulder in a shrug so clearly dismissive Steve can nearly see the disinterest written on the air between them. It might not be much of an answer, but it’s all he’s getting. “Your body language, Captain. _Tsk_. I recommend you don’t throw a punch. You’ll only bruise your husband’s jaw.”

“He’s not my—” Steve stops himself. Not fast enough. 

Loki arches an eyebrow. “He seems to think so. You seem terribly fond of that cheap tin ring. And the thoughts in your head when you were tucked up snug in the back of the taxi, my, my. Were those real? Or is that a lie?”

Steve says nothing. Too late.

“ _Choices_ ,” Loki muses aloud. “As others are so very fond of telling me, there are always choices. Even when we're sure that isn't true. And how could they know, if they who claim to know us so well were not inside our skin when the moment of decision came upon us?"

Steve closes his hand more tightly still around the thread. “What’s the end goal here, Loki? What’s your game?"

"Not to give it away before we've even begun," Loki replies tartly. He turns and gives Steve his back. Faces away from the window. Steve thinks he sees the edges of reflected robes shifting through a panoply of colors, red-blue-purple-cream, but he can't be sure and he'd rather not take his eye off Loki for too long. “Perhaps it’s only that I’m bored, Captain, and I have nothing better to occupy my time with.”

Right. Steve keeps a careful eye on the changes in Loki’s reflection, even though they dizzy him. A multiplicity of possibilities. “Can’t say I’d buy that one.” 

“Then perhaps there’s a shadow of hope for you,” Loki replies, tart as a winter apple. “Tell me, Captain. You are needed elsewhere. Would you go? Or do you want to stay?”

It’s the question Steve’s angled for, but as the words drop into the air, it’s like there’s a lock on his tongue.

“And so,” Loki murmurs. “And so.” 

Steve says nothing. He could, but he doesn’t trust himself to.

Loki chooses one thread that looks exactly like all the others, and drapes it around his neck. “What is reality but illusion? What would you sacrifice, to save the smallest? Hold on tight, Captain. We’re only just getting to the good stuff.” 

He flicks the ends of the thread at Steve, and—

Steve blinks.

Blinks up at Bucky, who’s lying in bed next to him, sort of on top of him, holding his shoulders down. The ends of his hair tickle against Steve’s skin. He gives Steve a shake, light and careful, but there’s panic written in his eyes. “Steve?”

“Damn it,” Steve says, almost hopeless, wholly helpless. He’s too warm, as if he’s been sweating out a fever. 

Bucky almost drops. “Thank God. There you are. I couldn’t wake you up.” He touches Steve’s face with deft fingertips, worry etched across his lips. From the light, and from the looks of it, and the feel of semen drying on his stomach, this must be the same afternoon. “You okay?”

Steve licks his lips. He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t know what to say.

“What the hell was that?” Bucky asks, palm cradling Steve’s cheek. “Some kind of a nightmare?”

God, how the man loves him. It hits Steve like a shock of lightning, like coming ass over teakettle off his bike. It sounds conceited to say, but seeing that kind of care and regard shining down on him makes Steve feel—like he wants to cry, or like he wants to raise his fists and rage against the sky, or to pretend nothing else was ever real, because Loki wasn’t wrong about that, damn him. 

Bucky’s persistent. Always was. Even if he isn’t real. Even if he _is_ real. “Steve?” he asks, still there, so warm and present and alive that it… 

Someone back in 2014 will notice there’s a problem, Steve thinks. Even if he isn’t gone for long out there, he lives under enough scrutiny to be sure zone-outs won’t go unnoticed. 

If he’s careful. If he’s _so_ careful with his heart, then maybe by the time someone comes to pull him back out, then he could be okay. He could have the memories of this to keep him going, and he could make as many memories as possible, storing them up for the long, long winter…

Steve’s jaw works as he swallows hard. He knew his choice before he knew he had to make it. He covers Bucky’s hand with his own, and makes himself smile. “Just a dream. We’re good.”

“Punk,” Bucky says, bending to kiss him.

And even if it damns him, Steve allows it. Welcomes it. Because that’s the easy part. The good part, Bucky’s mouth on his, and Bucky’s hands starting to wander down his chest. Even if he knows that whatever the hard part is going to be, that’ll be hell on earth.

When it comes around, that is. When _it_ is real. But all he can do is wait and see.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which events take a certain turn.

Steve never dreamed in the ice.

It’s funny, in the way of things that aren’t funny at all. Not too long after he woke up, there was this group of scientists who nearly came to blows arguing over theories about that. Sleep specialists, or something; Steve wasn’t paying that much attention, too baffled by the world seventy years on from what it _should_ have been for him. Half the scientists had written papers—books—about what a mind could process during extended sleep, about what he would have dreamed of, and they wanted the details now and in technicolor. The other half just wanted him to mostly live in an MRI machine so they could study the changes in his brain structure. 

Point is, most of them refused to believe that for him it was just one sharp, short blink between the world going black and waking to that ball game on the radio. They refused to believe because they didn’t want to believe. 

As far as Steve knows, they still don’t. There’s been papers published on trauma and mental blocks, and pointed memos about cooperation which he politely discards. 

And then this happened. This dream world, this alternate reality. Loki’s playground. Whatever you want to call it. 

And Steve thinks… Well. He doesn’t think much, not if he can help it. The dream goes on. 

He works. Though the nuns would be happy for him to come and do odd jobs while Bucky busies himself as their man-of-all-work around the orphanage, Steve finds that he mostly keeps busy giving art lessons to neighborhood kids. They come by with pads of paper and pencils and pastels, and sit at the neatly scrubbed kitchen table to draw while Steve corrects their technique and takes care of the housekeeping. 

Bucky comes home every day just past six, unbelievably filthy, grinning from ear to ear, full of stories about his day. It gets less and less disconcerting, and Steve learns who to ask after, which kids are hellions, which are angels, and which reminds Bucky of them when they were little. Sometimes they’re all three at once, and Steve draws pictures of them as gifts. 

Sister Theresa sends day-old bread to keep their pantry stocked, when she has it. They eat good, proper meals, Bucky glowing with pleasure every time Steve has to push his plate back, too full for another bite. 

They go dancing, a couple of times. Hot, humid halls crammed with people, men with men and women with women and Bucky will let Steve dance with other people if he wants, but mostly he doesn’t. He’d rather take to the floor in Bucky’s arms, and lay his head on Bucky’s strong chest to breathe in the comforting smell of him.

At night—sometimes during the day—they’re naked together in their apartment, and they do—everything, almost. Never penetration, though Steve’s hungry for it and Bucky’s hungrier, but that’s okay. He can have Bucky every other way, and that’s nothing to sneeze at. He can _drown_ in Bucky if he wants, and sometimes he does, rutting against him until it feels like he’s fallen into the sky, straight up to the stars.

He sleeps, and his dreams-within-dreams are light, ordinary things, the kinds he remembers from years gone by.

And the dream doesn’t end. It’s as if this _is_ the real world. As if he belongs. There’s no air-conditioning or sprawling supermarkets or television or internet, and the smells of the crowded city are sometimes enough to make his stomach churn, but. _But_. Even though it’s been a long time since he’s been a regular visitor at Mass, Steve reckons this is about what he’d thought heaven might be like.

But heaven it’s not. Or at least Steve’s fairly sure that if this was heaven, things like a bout of summer influenza wouldn’t be a regular feature. 

“Feeling any better?” Bucky’s hand comes to rest, warm, on Steve’s back, between his shoulder blades. “You’re not as warm. Fever must have lifted.”

“Mmm? Oh. Right, I think so.” Steve props his cheek on his hand. He’s been knocked out for almost three days, and he’s just now starting to feel something like human again. Even so, he’d nearly dozed off between his morning students. Bucky comes home for lunch when he can, but definitely with a purpose today. He always was a big fretter, especially when Steve wasn’t well. And while Steve is healthier here than he was in the real-world Brooklyn, he’s still small and he’s never going to be truly strong without the serum. 

Though thinking about that troubles him. He’s not sure he would take Dr. Erskine up on his offer in this world, and—well, it might be a choice he’d have to face. This world isn’t perfect. War’s coming. The newspapers and the radio broadcasts are far too much like the ones he remembers. There’ll be a draft before too much longer.

Mostly he tries to put it out of his head. For now, for as long as the dream lasts. He’d rather sip at a cup of still-warm tea laced with a dollop of real honey, watch Bucky toss his cap aside, and ask, “Did you go by the library?”

“Yep. Had to run an errand, and I was walking straight past anyhow, so.” Bucky deposits three fat books in front of Steve. He makes a satisfied noise as he lines up their edges. “Norse mythology, just like you asked for. You thinking you’re gonna try copying some of the pictures in there?”

“Something like that, yeah.” Steve runs his fingertips over the cover of the topmost book. When he opens the cover, a burst of sense memory breaks open in his head. He’d spent who knew how many hours in that gorgeous old building, drifting among the stacks or tucked up in a corner with good light for sketching. The librarians tended to indulge him since he minded his manners and never came in with dirty hands. He cuts a glance sideways at Bucky with a secret smile. He’s not sure if the library is the same grand old edifice here, but Bucky’s the same old Buck in all the ways that count. Disheveled as heck from a hard morning’s work, smelling like the furnaces they must have had him maintaining, and the only clean things about him _are_ his hands, like pink mittens. And it didn’t stop him. Steve can just see the way he’d have held his head high, so confident that no one questioned him, as good or better than anyone and making sure the world knew it.

People used to say that Steve’s bravery inspired thousands. He’s not sure about that, but he does know his bravery was always inspired by one man.

That man takes off his cap and runs his fingers through his hair, making it stand on end like a deranged porcupine. Steve can’t help it—he bursts out laughing. “Sorry,” he says when Bucky pretends to take injured offense. “Sorry, Buck, you look ridiculous. Why don’t you let me cut that for you?”

“Maybe someday,” Bucky says. He flips open one of the books—mostly, Steve’s sure, to tease Steve into slapping his now-dirty hands away. Laughing, he wraps one casual arm over Steve’s shoulders and lets him turn the pages. He’s searching for mention of Loki, but there are an awful lot of pictures that make his fingers itch for paper and pencil of his own. He has no idea what Loki wanted him to search for in the mythology, but he won’t mind doing it as much as he’d imagined.

“They’ve got more books, if you want,” Bucky says idly, tilting his head in curiosity at one oil painting that can only be politely described as orgiastic. “This was all I could carry for now.”

“Mmm… We’ll see if I find what I want in these first. But thanks.” Steve goes up on his toes to kiss Bucky’s cheek.

It’s adorable. Bucky _blushes_.

“Seriously?” Steve asks, delighted. “That thing you did last night, and this is what gets a blush?”

“Shut it.” Bucky knuckles the top of his head, but goes an even darker shade of pink, and that really gets Steve’s motor turning. 

And—what’s a guy to do but take advantage? He stretches up, reaching for the other cheek, and yelps when Bucky evades that particular maneuver by grabbing him around the waist and hoisting him bodily onto the table. 

“There!” he says, planting his hands on the table, on either side of Steve’s. “Gotcha where I want you now.” He looks so _pleased_ with himself and it is so easy, so gorgeously easy, for Steve to put his arms around Bucky’s neck and bring him in for a real kiss. 

“Oh now. So that’s how it is?” Bucky asks, pressing his mouth to Steve’s neck.

“Mm-hmm. Yep,” Steve agrees. He lifts his feet and manages to wind his legs around both of Bucky’s. If he’ll have to scrub the table again later, he’s gonna make it worth his while. Because he can, here. He feels better, anyway, flu held at bay, and he missed saying a proper goodbye to Bucky this morning. “If you have time?”

Bucky grumbles as he checks over his shoulder at the clock ticking contentedly away next to the stove. “Gotta be quick.”

“I can do quick,” Steve says. 

He’s not joking. They take punctuality seriously at St. Michael’s and Bucky’s in for a reprimand if he’s tardy, but neither of them let it slow them down overmuch. It certainly doesn’t stop Bucky from taking Steve by the hips and sliding him forward, till he’s barely on the table at all, or from going to one knee. The angle is odd but at the same time it’s, _oh_. 

For the most part, the blind, pushing need to fuck from the early days has faded. This is warm, and hungry, but it’s kind. Steve braces his hands on the tabletop and struggles to keep his head upright, wanting to look down at Bucky’s mouth on his dick, but feeling too good for his muscles not to go loose and warm. He pushes his fingers through Bucky’s hair, petting and scratching at his scalp, a thrill going through him at the way Bucky _loves_ that. He almost purrs. Even if Steve doesn’t have the best view of Bucky’s plush lips hot on him, he can feel—everything. Like his skin is more sensitive than ever. Like prickles, like champagne bubbles, like a fire in winter. He draws in a deep, lusty breath of surprise when he comes, easy as a summer morning, and moans when Bucky pulls back to lick his lips.

“Bring that up here,” Steve mutters, waving vaguely below Bucky’s crotch. Smooth he’s not, then or now or here, but Bucky doesn’t mind. He only laughs as he gets awkwardly to his feet, hand already busy at his belt. He lets Steve knuckle that hand out of the way so he can do the rest of the work, drawing Bucky out of his work pants and hot, hard, smooth in his palm. 

Doesn’t take much, though Steve could wish it would. Buck’s so hot for him that his cock’s on a short fuse, leaking slick to smooth the way as he bites at the side of Steve’s neck. They’re breathing hard, both of them, loud rasps and soft whines, kissing where they can with mouths open and lips hungry for more, more, more. He shudders into orgasm at Steve’s touch, breaking apart as gently as dawn after a long dark night.

Hands dirty, hands clean, doesn’t matter when he takes Steve by the nape and presses their foreheads together hard. “You,” Bucky says, half-breathless, half-laughing. “You’re something else, Rogers.”

“Yeah, and don’t you forget it.”

Steve has to stop then. A mild wave of vertigo makes him lean back harder to brace himself, but it passes quickly enough and Bucky doesn’t notice, so that’s okay. He’s busy tucking himself away, and fetching a scrap of cloth wet under the tap for Steve.

“You can take care of yourself first, you know,” Steve says, though he honestly doesn’t mind the extra exposure. Not when Bucky looks at him like he’s everything in the world. Neither does he mind the care in Bucky’s touch, and to be honest he wouldn’t deny the man this indulgence for anything. “You’re something else yourself. You know that?”

Bucky winks at him. He settles Steve’s shirt, pushed askew, more neatly on his shoulders—then stops to take a second, approving look. “Remind me to get some more peanut butter next payday, would you? Looks like you’ve put on another pound or two.”

“Have I?” Steve tries to look down at himself. It’s possible. He’s still not sure what his baseline is here except ‘better’. But… “Get some apples, too?”

One of Bucky’s eyebrows goes up. “You make your way through that whole peck already?”

“Um. Nearly?” Steve says, sheepish. He’d left them on the kitchen table day before yesterday, sketching and munching, and there’d been mostly just cores left when he was done. Come to think of it, that’s where most of the peanut butter disappeared. “Can we afford to buy some more before payday?”

“Hell yes, if it gets you eating.” Bucky presses his palm against Steve’s cheek, studies him, and makes an approving noise. “Look at the color in your cheeks, gorgeous. Any kind of apples?”

Steve’s stomach rumbles. “Red ones.”

“Red ones, check.” Bucky kisses him once more, slow and sweet, then sighs. “I’ve gotta…”

Being late isn’t a thing Steve wants to happen. The nuns wouldn’t fire him—he doesn’t think—but better not to take chances. “Go on, then,” he says, using Bucky’s shoulder to help himself down to his feet. “Sooner you go, sooner the day’s over, sooner you’re back home.”

“Now that sounds like a plan,” Bucky says.

Steve bites back the _well, I am the star-spangled man with a plan_ that wants to come out because there’s no way he wants to explain that, and no way he really could. He laughs instead, and drops into one of the hard-backed chairs to watch Bucky neaten himself in a hurry and head back out. From the sound of it, he takes the stairs two at a time. Maybe three.

He waits for the crash-and-bang of the front door of their building—no one makes an exit quite like Bucky in a hurry—before he gives in to the wave of dizziness, stomach-lurching vertigo, that makes him fall forward. If not for the table, he’d have fallen. At first there’s terror, thinking that maybe now is when the dream ends, that he’ll be jerked back into the other world, but thank God it doesn’t happen. Even if his vision’s going in and out of a tunnel, blood-pressure lights and colors sparking bright behind his eyelids, he’s still here. 

He won’t complain. He refuses. Not even when the dizziness makes him bend over and bring up the cup of honey-laced tea sour on the floor. _Damn_. Steve wipes his mouth on the back of his hand and keeps his eyes closed as he leans carefully, carefully back in the chair.

It passes. Mostly. All things do. He’s never been a good patient, he knows, always trying to push his recovery time faster than recovery wanted to go. Odds are he’s still got some flu to work its way out of his system.

No regrets, though, he decides, resting a hand on his sore stomach. Even if it's just a dream. Even if Loki's playing games with him. He wants to stay.

And-- _Huh_. Now that he’s there, he thinks he does notice what Bucky meant about the peanut butter and apples weight gain. Very slight, but Bucky knows his body inside and out. There’s just enough extra to take note of. Steve makes a quiet, pleased noise. He keeps his eyes closed and—because he can—touches his arms, his stomach, his hips, his cheeks. Flu or not, his skin feels soft, smooth. His hair is thicker. His joints loose, easy. He almost thinks he might want to take it easy on the peanut butter, actually, because while he’s a healthier weight than before he’s on the verge of having a little pot belly and that’s…

That’s…

Steve stops, hand on his stomach. It _is_ rounder. He can feel it. And that’s— His hand stops. He makes himself sit still, calm, not opening his eyes, because what he’s thinking is not possible. Bucky hasn’t even been inside him since—

Since that one time. Steve remembers. The first time. The first dream. When he nipped at Bucky’s neck, and Bucky almost came in him.

No. Not possible.

Steve pushes the thought aside, but it muscles back in. When he thinks of Bucky, it’s with a sense of satisfaction as much as with affection and… The very little bit he knows about such things jangles, loud, in his ears. His fingers flex, searching for something to hang onto, but he comes back to the same resounding space inside his head.

 _Oh,_ he thinks, wildly, dizzily. _Oh_.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve finds that having a mission helps. Always has. Give him a target, let him point himself at it, and he can accomplish a hell of a lot. 
> 
> Usually.

_Okay._

Steve allows himself a minute to completely lose his shit. And to cuss, because that’s a thing that can happen when he’s broken his brain. Just one minute, because if he takes more he’s not sure he’ll ever manage to come back. He breathes in through his nose, and out through his mouth, good Brooklyn air and the smells of their apartment—the tang of iron, the sweetness of apples, the rich ripeness of sex.

One hand is pressed to his mouth. The other, to his stomach. 

The thought—and it’s a wild hair of hope, he knows that—occurs to him that he might be wrong. He might just have gained weight. A jar of peanut butter a week will do that to anyone. And he doesn’t know what pregnancy is supposed to feel like. 

On the other hand, he is fairly sure that weight gain wouldn’t centralize exactly like that, the still-soft, still-small rounding under his palm.

But he could be wrong. He _could_.

So. Steve lifts his head. What he needs is to find out for sure. Somehow. And that’s a whole other set of wrinkles to puzzle through. They can afford food, but a doctor would still be too much of a luxury. Find a neighborhood midwife, and have the whole building buzzing with gossip before the day’s done. Anonymity is what he wants, but he doubts the corner drugstore sells neat little kits all boxed up in bright pink and blue, and there’s a butcher shop a couple of blocks away but he really doesn’t want to kill a rabbit. If that’s even how it works, which it probably isn’t, and he wouldn’t know where to begin anyhow. Ask it like it’s a fortune teller?

It’s possible he’s still panicking. 

_Can you imagine?_ he asks himself, still too shocked to be awed, but fascinated all the same. If he and Bucky have made a child. Steve presses his hand down. A little boy, maybe, with Steve’s heart and Bucky’s strength. A baby girl who would maybe look like Sarah Rogers, and grow up strong. Tiny hands and knitted caps and pocketfuls of frogs or snips of lace. Bucky would burst all his buttons with pride. These walls would ring with high childish laughter. He and Bucky could grow old together. Maybe have another. Live out their lives. Even if it’s just a dream—and he’s doubting that more and more these days, even if he doesn’t know what else it could be instead—it would be worth it to have that. It _would_.

And what if that’s within his power to do, here? 

_But what if it’s not?_ Steve makes himself sit up straight, eyes forward, hands on the table and away from his body. He focuses on the door to their apartment, shut but not locked, and another bolt of pure alarm propels him off the table, straight there to throw the bolt and lean against it. Cold sweat and vertigo make his guts twist, but he pushes that down and takes a few more breaths, and then a few more, until his innards settle down. If Bucky had come back for any reason—forgot his cap, or wanting another kiss for good luck, and seen that—Steve whistles in dismay. 

And, yeah. There’s another reason to find out for very damn sure. _So snap out of it, Rogers. Think. Who do you know who might have been here and done this before?_

At first, his mind comes up with a resounding blank. He cannot imagine Natasha when she isn’t a hundred percent in control. Faces flash in his memory—Pepper, Maria Hill, Jane Foster—but it just doesn’t click for him. They’d be savvier. Likely they’d have been quick enough to grab Loki when he was playing cabbie-in-disguise and punch their way back to where they belong. He wasn’t fast enough. He’s never been fast enough. The memories are mercilessly clear. Memories of Erskine dying from a HYDRA bullet—and Bucky, falling—

Also, all those ladies are safely in their proper time and place and Steve’s _not_.

A bizarre image of Clint in a maternity smock passes over his mind’s eye and makes him laugh. And Tony? Imagine Tony realizing that it’s not the bourbon making him bring up his breakfast, it’s a baby.

Steve presses the back of his hand to his mouth until the giggles stop. It’s ludicrous, but it helps; sometimes laughter _is_ the best medicine. And then he remembers someone else. Someone who’d likely have far more savvy than to get herself in a pickle, but who would know what to do if a friend came to them for help. 

_And that would be to use your head,_ Peggy’s calm, no-nonsense voice instructs him. He can hear her so clearly it’s as if she’s speaking directly inside his mind. _Whatever the enemy wants, losing control can only help them. Don’t allow it._

It’s good sense. “And then what?” Steve asks, out loud.

_You know your resources. Make use of them, for pity’s sake. What point is there in pride if it hinders progress?_

Steve takes in one big breath, and lets it out again. Okay, then. Okay. He knows what he has to do.

* * *

Having a mission helps. Always has. Give him a target, let him point himself at it, and he can accomplish a hell of a lot. It doesn’t take a great deal of effort to wash his face, find a clean shirt, and head out with a sketchbook tucked under his arm to disguise his true intent. Nothing odd or notable about Steve Rogers going out to sketch in the afternoon light. It makes him feel calm, centered, focused, and that lasts all the way to the back steps of St. Michael’s, until he’s knocked on the door and asked for Sister Theresa. Until she comes to the door with a frown, and looks at him—and he can’t think of a single damned thing to say—and her expression changes, from confusion to flat comprehension.

“I suppose you’d better come in,” Sister Theresa says. “Oh, Steve.”

It’s what he has to do. It’s his only option without alerting their neighbors or breaking the bank. He won’t regret it. But he’s never liked the taste of disappointment, and come to find out, the flavor isn’t any better now.

* * *

The less said about the examination that follows, the better. Steve’s not sure he’s ever been quite so embarrassed. He drags the exam table’s drape up over his eyes at one point—okay, he doesn’t, but he’s definitely tempted. Sister Theresa isn’t a midwife—her brand of medicine is more general knowledge and pediatrics—but then again, as she tells him some things are common sense and the rest is application.

And she is not happy with him. She conducts most of the necessary business in the stony kind of silence that warns of a hurricane on the way. 

But that’s okay. He uses the time to think, and think hard. Deciding what to do. What he wants. What isn’t sensible and practical but what he thinks he’s going to do anyway.

“And how long ago, did you say?” Sister Theresa asks, cool hands firm on his abdomen.

Steve bites at his lip. “Two months—no, three now. Three months ago.”

“God help you, Steve Rogers,” Sister Theresa says. She pulls the sheet down to cover what’s left of his dignity, and lets him sit up. “God help you indeed. What were you thinking?”

He shakes his head and says nothing, because what he was thinking at the time isn’t something he’s going to tell a nun, even if she does look like she’ll crack him across the knuckles with a ruler if he doesn’t ‘fess up. “Wasn’t, really,” he says. “We’ve been careful.”

“Except for the once,” Sister Theresa says. She crosses the room to wash her hands in a porcelain basin of water that’s likely gone cold by now. “I don’t suppose you need me to say the words. You’re usually intelligent enough to discern the truth.”

Steve isn’t going to say he’s sorry. Because he isn’t. And he knows she’s only scared for him. Heck, he’s plenty scared for himself. He might be better, but he isn’t _well_.

And she knows it, too. “So,” he says after a moment. “What are my odds?”

“The Church doesn’t approve of gambling.” She won’t look at him, not yet, still too angry. “But I wouldn’t stake a plugged nickel on it, Steve. You’re three months along, roughly, so I doubt you’ll lose it now. Though that could still happen. And that’s only one of the dangers. The strain on your heart alone—”

“Sister, I know,” Steve says. Then, because he has to, asks, “Will you help me?”

Sister Theresa dries her hands, and finally looks at him. “Insomuch as I can. God help me too, I suppose. Does James know?”

 _Ah_. Exactly what he was hoping she wouldn’t ask. 

She takes his silence for the answer it is. “Steve—”

“Don’t tell him,” Steve blurts. “Please don’t. He needs to hear it from me.”

She doesn’t like that either, but she nods. Sometimes, Steve has trouble remembering his mother. Sometimes, he gets reminders. Well, she probably would have tanned his backside for him instead of refraining from it like Sister Theresa is managing so far, but the same sense of maternal concern is a balm.

“You’d better go out the back, then,” she says, with a twitch of the lips that Steve thinks is an attempt at a reassuring smile. “James is in the front, working on the steps. But before you go home, I want you to go to the market—do you have at least fifty cents you can spare?— Good— and find a few things you’ll need. I’ll make a list.”

She’ll come around. She’ll help. Thank God. That makes it a heck of a lot easier. Not _easy_ , because none of this is going to be easy, but Steve will take what he can get. He nods, all seriousness, and when her back is turned, he crosses himself.

With the right hand. 

With the left, he presses his palm to his stomach, where for all the world’s worth of madness, there’s life growing. And that takes his breath away with the heady thrill of it.

 _Ours_.

* * * *

Which is not to say that Bucky isn’t going to have seven kinds of a fit about this. Steve maybe takes about twice as long as strictly necessary doing the shopping Sister Theresa assigned him. Nothing overly suspicious. Some vitamin tonics that he hopes aren’t a quack remedy, pastilles for indigestion, a hunk of liver and a couple of onions to build up his strength. A glass bottle of milk, and a standing order for daily delivery that Steve’s going to have to pick up work to afford.

It’ll be worth it, though. And it gives Steve a deadline. Explain before he makes dinner. Or possibly before Bucky does, because just looking at the raw liver made Steve want to hurl. 

It won’t be fun. Steve will admit he’s dreading it. But once Bucky gets over the mad, then…

He’s just around the corner from their apartment, but he stops to close his eyes—and catch his breath—and imagine the good that could come of this. Images of himself bringing this good to pass, of Bucky’s ear pressed to his stomach, of lullabies and broad hands on him, helping him. Even if there is a war, and Bucky’s drafted, he’ll have something good to fight for. A reason to come home safe and sound. No trains. Heck, if need be, he bets he can find Dr. Erskine before the Stark Expo. Erskine’s no obstetrician either, but Steve thinks he’d help if he could.

Probably better stay away from _Howard_ , but he could find Peggy again. She wouldn’t know him from Adam in this world, but he’d love to see her face.

It isn’t the life he ever thought he’d have, but he would be happy here. All he has to do is survive it.

Once Steve’s thought that, he stands very still and waits, because if there was ever a moment for Loki to show his face and burst the bubble this would definitely be it, but—nothing. Not even the hobo sitting on the sidewalk with a tin cup gives Steve more than a passing glance.

And Steve doesn’t know what that means, but he’ll take it. He opens his eyes, and moves forward one step at a time, around the corner, pointed for home.

He sees Bucky before Bucky sees him. It’s either later than he thought, or Bucky skipped out of work early. Either is equally possible. Steve’s heart does a small, excited leap to see him waiting on the steps leading up to their apartment. He’s a handsome man, and all the better-looking for being loved. Color in his cheeks, a contented sort of exhaustion after a hard day’s work, his shirt collar open and his cuffs rolled up. All good except for the long hair that brushes his shoulders by now. 

Which is odd, now Steve comes to think of it. Bucky never wore his hair long. Well, not all things here are exactly the same as they were. He snorts quietly as he pats his abdomen. Some things are _very_ different. That’s all right.

Bucky must be more tired than usual. He isn’t often given to introspection, but just now he’s staring into the middle distance, and he’s rubbing his left arm as if it hurts him. Maybe sprained his wrist or something? The man does have his pride, scowling fiercely at the muscle now as he massages it. And yet there’s a sort of distant resignation to him as he does that Steve doesn’t understand, but instinctively doesn’t like. A solitude that’s more than being alone for a moment, a sort of isolation that sits ill on his shoulders.

As much as Steve knows the opposite is true, sometimes he wonders what Bucky would do without _him_. Probably nothing good. Steve means to make sure they never have to find out. 

Steve gives himself one moment more to enjoy the view, then sets his shoulders and walks forward into battle. Because he’s Steve Rogers. That’s who he is. It’s what he does. And he’s never had something so worth fighting for. 

“Bucky,” he calls, waving, forgetting his plans for a moment in the sheer pleasure of seeing the man he loves again. “Hey, Buck!”

Bucky looks at Steve, and visibly shoves his dark mood aside. He lights up from the inside out, kicking back, waving at Steve. _Much better._

 _Okay. Let’s get this show on the road_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Possible note of clarification: I started writing this before I'd seen "The Winter Soldier". So, for the purposes of story, this goes AU about 1/3rd of the way through "The Dark World". 
> 
> The events of TWS haven't happened (yet) for Steve.
> 
> Also, HI :D


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a man who does not call himself the Winter Soldier (now) reflects.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my gooooood, I can _finally_ have his POV \o/ It was driving me crazy holding that back!

There is a man who sleeps inside the Asset's mind.

 _The Asset_. He does not call himself the Winter Soldier. Neither does he call himself James or Bucky. Those names belong to a ghost who has almost faded away, who no longer tries to make him listen to stories of how things used to be, and the beloved friend that he is--was--trying so hard to get home to. He rarely calls himself anything at all. He answers to _Asset_ , and that was sufficient for anyone's needs.

But then. Then they woke him for a mission that seemed wrong even to the Asset. A small thing. He can't remember now exactly what it was, only that it was something anyone could have handled. He does remember he felt--disconcerted, was the word that floated across his mind.

He didn't ask. He has long since learned not to ask questions. But he thinks now that it might have been a test. That the stranger who hired him only wanted to get a sense of what he could do. Where his limits were.

He has no limits. The operative might have known that. 

The stranger did not smell human. The Asset ignored that. At the time. He would not have been the first one. He had strange cat-green eyes, and he never stopped smirking, not even when he dragged his thumb along the Asset's cheek and murmured, "Well. This will be interesting, won't it?"

The Asset said nothing. He knew his training.

"Tell me, Sergeant," the stranger went on, ignoring the way the technicians fidgeted and shot wary looks at each other in the background, as if they did not trust this man. "If you could have anything--anything at all--what would you ask for?"

The Asset--was confused, then. There are no questions or answers. There are only objective to accomplish, and mission reports. He didn't know if he was meant to answer, or if that was another test.

But. But deep in his mind, where the man he might once have been lay curled up shivering in his sleep, he felt a spark jump from one thought to another. The things that man yearned for. Home. Family. _Rogers_. They were foreign concepts to the Asset, but the man woke long enough to _want_ them, to make the Asset's throat raw with strangling down the scream that would have escaped the Asset in his stead, and--

"Now, now. I see," the stranger who was not human said, the way a hungry cat would purr. "And what would you do, if I could give you this, Sergeant? Anything? Tell me."

The Asset did not mean to answer. The man inside his mind did it for him, screaming, _God, yes, anything, anything, just **help** me--_

The Asset is keeping a secret. It was the man who begged for it, but it was _him_ who nodded his head. Just once.

There was an argument then. His superiors must have decided not to let the stranger hire the services of their Asset, because they took him back to cryo. He didn't protest. He is not made to protest. But when he fell asleep, he woke to the stranger grinning at him as if he knew a secret too, and then--

And then he was here. In this place that the man remembered with such painful hunger. With the beloved one he yearned for while he slept. Different, but enough the same to assuage him. Them. Both. It was the stranger's gift to him, he understands, that he would know how to speak and act and move, comprehend how this world worked in all its myriad peculiarities, and that he should _not ask questions_ , but take the days of the mission as they came.

He cannot think of it as anything but a mission, though he is certain that is not the right word. "Dream" is better. Not perfect, not accurate, but better.

Perhaps it was a gift. A reward for long service. Perhaps not. 

There's a dance tonight. Steve, who is his responsibility--who must be kept happy and pliant, and who loves him ( _him_ )--likes dancing. He enjoys the music and the press of warm humanity. If he doesn't feel up to the exertion, there is a new movie playing at the theater. He can sit, and let the Asset put an arm around his shoulder, eat popcorn, and maybe kiss in the dark.

That would be good.

He thinks the man asleep in his mind may be dead--he's gone so _quiet_ \--but it is just as well to let him rest in peace if he can. When the Asset tries, it is so good to become the Bucky that this Steve wants most. Steven Grant Rogers, who is walking toward him where he sits on the stoop, and smiling with a shy, sweet (so sweet) curve of his lips (sweet mouth, soft kisses). The Asset-becoming-Bucky-again can smile back and pretend just for a little while that this is real. He forgot what it felt like so, so long ago, but here he can be _happy_.

Within limits, that is. Limits are very important. He understands he may have his fun so long as he does not exceed mission parameters, and those were laid out for him with exacting precision. He must, above all else, remember his orders. 

Because it was the man inside the Asset's head who begged for it, but it's _him_ who cannot bear to leave the dream. Not now.

 _Please, God,_ he thinks, foreign-familiar words. _Amen._

And out loud, he says, "There you are, doll. I wondered where you were. Where'd you get yourself off to today?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Update 11/16/14: I haven't abandoned this! My writing seems to have two basic speeds -- "turbo" or "frozen" -- with unfortunately little middle ground.
> 
> I've been thinking about maybe opening up a second part for side ficlets or prompts or what-have-you to try and coax my creative brain into being more active. Suggestions welcome!
> 
> And in the meantime, thanks for bearing with me <3


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anything that has not yet come to pass may still be brought to light.
> 
> Loki watches.

Anything that has not yet come to pass may still be brought to light.

Loki watches.

Though his body remains immured in Odin’s prison, he has never allowed such meager bonds to restrain his mind. Since he first learned magic from his lady mother, her lessons finding fertile soil in the dark and scrawny child he had been, he has had no difficulty in wandering where he wishes and as he pleases.

Loki needs neither scrying glass nor enchanted mirror to travel. Two pages of a book laid opposite, so that one page’s lines are vertical and the other’s horizontal, create enough of a loom that he can pluck at its strings.

This is a thing that Odin never knew, and that he is certain Frigga is well aware of. She gave him the books, after all.

Just now he strokes the pages lightly, frowning at them. Between the warp and weft of words Loki has been watching Steven Grant Rogers, formerly a thorn in his side, make his hesitant way toward the man he loves so dearly. The man he believes to be his lost beloved, restored to him again. He has stopped questioning how this could be, and thinks only of what happens in the moment, of the impossible child growing inside him.

It is—not—what Loki had hoped for. He growls at the pages, and snaps his book shut with disgust.

This does not go unnoticed by his watcher. Fandral sometimes comes down to the dungeons, but though he and Loki once shared laughter and jokes—and more—between them he does not come near now. Nor does he speak. He only finds a seat where he _thinks_ himself unobserved, and watches Loki with frowning, worried mien.

It reminds him of how the Soldier watches Steven Rogers, as if he knows something is wrong and is yet drawn to that wrongness as a moth to flame. If Loki but crooked his finger, Fandral would come to him.

He won’t.

Loki opens his book again and feathers a caress over the words within. They seem to float beneath his fingertips. So many things to see—things that could have been, or that might still be.

One of the books Frigga gave him was the darkest contraband, a volume of ‘ancient’ tales collected by a contemporary Midgardian printer. Loki scoffed his way through most of them, amazed and appalled in equal measure at the feats and foolishness ascribed to the Asgardians in their time there.

But among those—one set of stories, just one, captured him entirely. The legends of Loki’s offspring. His children.

Loki himself has never borne a child, though he suspects he could; the Frost Giants must reproduce somehow and he has never seen a female among them. And it made sense of certain moments in his life, specific glimpses in the looms, that had puzzled him for years upon years before.

For one—when he learned to ride, taught by a gentle giant in the stables. He was barely of age and the groom respectful in all ways, but he felt the heat that passed between them. To their mutual dismay, Loki had been too inexperienced to know how to take advantage of the man’s willingness. When he left the stables in a flurry of bashful confusion to look at the multiplicity of possible futures, he had been horrified by eight-legged horses and intrigued by images of a brown-haired boy with a bright, beautiful smile.

Then they were gone, their chances of becoming real all passing by.

It happened a second time when Loki wished to learn the ways of a strange but beautiful stringed instrument. He took his lessons from its maker, a clever man with a silver tongue and a handsome face. After that, he saw nightmare visions of monsters and destruction, and also a small but sweet-natured girlchild who lifted her adoring face to him.

They passed out of sight and out of mind, not remembered until the next time. Midgard tells him their names were Sleipnir, Hel, Fenrir, and more. Fenrir had been the barest of passing thoughts for him, come in a moment of deliberation between listening to Thor plead for the dusty patch of Earth he’d sworn to protect and Loki’s directing the Destroyer to deliver a fatal blow. After all, they weren’t brothers, were they? They shared no blood. It would have been simplicity itself to charm Thor into his bed.

Loki had chosen vengeance instead, and has not regretted it.

Across the way, Fandral watches with his arms crossed. So worried. Loki thinks about smirking at him, but there’s no need to give the game away before he’s decided who will win and how to set the rules. It may only be that Fandral misses Hogun, his usual bedfellow; it may be that Fandral remembers how he and Loki spent hours wrapped up together with their naked bodies pressed one against the other. It may be that he is horrified; it may be that he is tempted.

A wisp of an image passes behind Loki’s mind’s eye. He sees the possible futures of a laughing child with dark hair done in ringlets and his understanding of how to twist Fandral’s charm to her own ends. Her arms go around his neck in delight when he tells her she has done well. In that moment, Loki is proud of her; in that moment, he craves very much to give her life.

He’ll be damned first.

Loki shrugs off the vision irritably and returns his attention to the New York he sees through those cross-hatched lines. This game began as a diversion and a distraction for his brother’s ally, whose supposed purity is infuriating. Loki wondered what Steven Rogers would look like if he allowed himself to revel in filth.

He has done so, and ever since has twisted his path through the loom in a way that makes Loki wary of sudden moves.

Steve Rogers is three months gone with child, and is _happy_ about it. Terrified, yes, and he knows nothing of the truth about his lover. In the future-for-them, the metal soldier’s masters are going mad in their search for their stolen asset. They might be clever enough to look backward. There’s potential for mischief there that Loki marks well. 

And yet—happiness! It wasn’t meant to be this way, and it baffles the Lie-Smith. 

Loki closes his book with a quieter growl, and shuts his eyes too. He’ll wait, he thinks. Let the players move across the board a little while longer; it’s a diverting show if nothing else. And if he decides he’s grown tired of it… Well.

He smiles then, wide and delighted—because if he chooses, the one sure thing he can do with any happiness is take it away.

They’ll see.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For anyone still reading this: thank you. It's been a long year of wrestling with depression, but I seem to be making progress again!


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Asset is capable of risk assessment. He learned many years ago how to detect prickles of wrongness long before they stirred the hairs on the back of his neck.
> 
> He knows, though he cannot yet say how or why, that something is very wrong here.

It is so easy to play this role that it does not cease to amaze him.

The Asset has of course been called upon to assume a fictitious persona before. Generally nothing excessive, remaining in the background to look menacing or—rarely—disporting himself as the honey in a trap. He receives his information on who he is meant to be, and how he is meant to act, and obeys his orders. It does not engage any part of him like this does. All he has to do is concentrate, and he _is_ James Buchanan Barnes. Bucky likes to laugh, to tease, and to dance. He loves his employment as a menial laborer and he adores Steven Rogers beyond all reason. He is happy, so happy when he forgets to be otherwise, and yet—

And yet.

Conscious and critical behind the mask of the man he has been told to be, the Asset is capable of risk assessment. He learned many years ago how to detect prickles of wrongness long before they stirred the hairs on the back of his neck.

He knows, though he cannot yet say how or why, that something is very wrong here.

The Asset adopts a position of watchful waiting, and allows his persona to take center stage.

Just in time, too. Steve stands in front of their precious mirror in its tin frame. He’d started doing something with his hair when the Asset drifted off, and it looks different now. So does Steve. He’s paused in cleaning pomade from the comb they share and is giving the man he believes to be his husband an odd, searching look. “Are you okay?”

“What?” The Asset—Bucky—blinks and then grins, wide and easy. “Sorry, doll. Woolgathering.”

Steve frowns. “Are you sure?” He nods at Bucky’s left arm. “You keep rubbing that.”

“Strained it on the job,” Bucky lies. He takes a longer look at Steve and whistles. “You clean up pretty nice, don’t you?”

It’s true. Steve has washed himself of the grime gathered in a day’s labors. His skin looks soft and has a healthy pink color, especially in his cheeks. Bucky isn’t a fan of Steve slicking his hair back in accordance with fashion—he likes it soft enough to card his fingers through—but he’s pretty as a picture.

“Stop it,” Steve scoffs. He looks in the mirror to nudge one errant strand of hair back in place and takes a deep breath. “Buck. Have you got your heart set on dancing tonight?”

Bucky leers at him, deliberately overplaying it to make Steve turn a darker pink and laugh. “Got something better in mind?”

It doesn’t exactly work. Steve goes quiet and seems—worried? “Just thought we might have a quiet night in for a change. We could talk.”

Normally, Bucky would agree. His orders are to keep Steve happy, after all. But Steve looks preoccupied, internally conflicted. Perhaps he believes Bucky to be in need of rest after his supposed injury, but that isn’t necessary. Physical exertion has in the past produced a better mood and brighter outlook for both of them. 

Besides, he’s been looking forward to the dance for hours.

“We don’t have to stay all night. Tell you what. Three songs, and if you still want we’ll come back home then. It’d be a shame to get all dolled up for nothing, right?” Bucky tips up Steve’s chin and drops a light kiss on his pretty mouth. 

Steve kisses back—even clings for a moment. He sighs and says, “All right. Three songs. I mean it, Buck. Just three.”

Bucky grins broadly at him, then lifts Steve’s hand to give him a little twirl. “Deal.”

Behind the persona’s mask, the Asset approves. This will do them both a world of good.

* * *

There are more people at the dance than anticipated. Perhaps more than normal for this sort of event; Steve puts on the brakes and stares at the club with wide eyes. 

Bucky had been a step and a half ahead of Steve, tugging at his hand to keep track of him and encourage him along, but he stops now to look back over his shoulder. “Something the matter?”

Steve digs in his heels. “There’s got to be half of Hell’s Kitchen crammed in here.”

“Nah, not so many as all that.”

“We’ll get trampled if we so much as set foot in there.” 

“You promised me three songs, gorgeous.” Bucky tries another kiss to see if it has the same effect as before. It does; Steve’s lips twitch at the teasing, clearly trying to refrain from smiling. 

Good. He re-calibrates and goes back for more, putting one hand on Steve’s hip and capturing his hand with the other, moving them both in place in a semblance of silly dancing. 

Bucky speaks through his mouth, wheedling like a child in a candy shop. It feels good. It’s fun. “Don’t deny me, doll, hmm? Gotta show them all what a pretty man I’ve got on my arm. They’ll all hate me—more than they do already—for snatching up someone as sweet as you when they see us out there. Let’s go turn their eyes green. What d’you say?”

Steve’s laughing now. “Oh my God, stop. You’re ridiculous.”

“Three songs,” Bucky coaxes. He can feel curious gazes directed their way, and some are plainly jealous of his good fortune. “We’ll have the band play something slow, huh?”

Steve flinches at that for some unknown reason, but shakes his head before Bucky can ask why. He lifts his chin. “Make you a deal. If you can get all the way to the bar over there and bring me back a glass of soda water _without_ getting trampled, I’ll give you those three songs without another word.”

“Thirsty?” It was a long walk from their apartment; Bucky guesses it isn’t unreasonable that he would be dry.

“Mmm,” is all Steve says. He’s sweating slightly—maybe exertion from the walk—but he’s still brave, still game. He’s beaming now, sure he’s got all the aces in his hand. “Dare you.”

Now those are fighting words. Bucky laughs out loud. “You’re on. Where are you going to be? I want you where I can keep my eyes on you.”

Steve raises one shoulder, not so thin as it used to be. “Right here by the door, I guess.”

“You won’t leave?”

There’s something sad in the back of Steve’s eyes. It passes as he says, “Not without you.”

Good enough/sufficient for the purpose. Bucky salutes Steve; the Asset turns to face his challenge.

Wading through the crowd of dancers proves surprisingly difficult. Bent on the pursuit of their own enjoyment, they’re not inclined to move aside for him, and the Asset has to employ the use of strategic elbows to make any headway. 

His progress is slow enough that he has time to observe the dancers in action. Some are more talented than others, and they draw other observers in their turn. Others are less capable of following a rhythm, but they are so plainly enjoying themselves that those who watch them produce spontaneous smiles of approval.

He glances back, and sees Steve waiting where he promised by the doors. He doesn’t look happy, but seems preoccupied again. He rubs absently at his stomach as if he suffers from an attack of indigestion. 

The Asset takes note of this. Steve has consumed a statistically significant amount of apples and peanut butter over the past few days. His request for soda water makes more sense given this new information. Perhaps he’ll feel more like dancing once he’s attended to the needs of his digestive system.

Purpose renewed, the Asset makes for the bar with greater determination but he is stopped in his tracks by a pair of dancers far more oblivious than the rest.

The Asset frowns at them, impatient, and notices he is not the only one who has singled this pair out. He wonders why. They’re both male, both dressed as befits local custom, and both around Steve’s age, though taller and leaner.

No, only one of them is leaner. Their partner is not at all lean when viewed from the side or the front. He appears to be in roughly his fortieth week of gestation. His enormous belly looks like it should bounce as he moves to the music, but it remains high and firm.

Men can bear children in this time and place; the Asset has noticed it before in passing, and has largely disregarded the phenomenon.

It’s less easy to ignore when it’s right in front of him.

The Asset finds himself fascinated. Whoever these men are, they clearly care deeply for one another. Perhaps nearly as much as his persona cares for Steve. Affection for his partner guides the skinny dancer’s every move, and he strokes the other man’s bulging belly every chance he gets as if it’s something rare and special.

Poorly concealed whispers shoot back and forth from their audience. 

“If he tries to Lindy Hop, he’ll drop that baby right on the floor. What are they thinking?” one asks.

Another laughs. “That’s probably what they’re hoping for, you goose. Didn’t you know? You can get things started if you work hard enough.”

“They worked hard enough at starting things nine months ago,” a third voice says crisply, and then the lot of them dissolve into giggles.

Interesting, but ultimately irrelevant. The Asset has been extremely careful every time to withdraw from the clutching heat of Steve’s body prior to climax. He received strict warnings about that, and dire threats of what would happen should he fail.

Besides. The Asset can see for himself that Steve isn’t strong. He needs to be cared for. Bucky wants to take care of him. It’s his guiding star.

Watching these men makes Bucky uncomfortable, and so the Asset moves on. When a song ends, he’s finally able to make some headway toward the bar. “Soda water,” he shouts over the racket from thirsty dancers who have had the same idea. “And make it snappy!”

The barman shoots him the sort of look that suggests he can wait his turn or do without. It will suffice. The Asset has observed them in action and seen that they may be ill-tempered, but they move quickly.

A glance back at the doors shows him Steve has kept his promise and not moved. Now that the Asset knows what to look for, he can see that Steve does seem slightly unwell. His pink color is slowly fading to a sickly green congruent with stomach ailments, and he has loosened his collar.

Bucky growls at the barman, who is even less impressed with him than before.

At his left, the skinny man and his vastly pregnant partner crowd their way in. The bulge of the pregnant man’s stomach jostles the Asset’s elbow, and snugs in next to his side. It is—disconcerting. To say the least. It _moves_ , something under the taut skin delivering a muted punch as if to say it doesn’t care for the cramped conditions either.

The skinny man rubs at the small of his partner’s back. “Anything?”

“Not yet,” the partner laments. “I don’t think it’s ever going to start. I just want it to be over with.”

His displeasure is understandable; his condition certainly appears uncomfortable. The man’s center of gravity is grossly off-kilter, and the extra weight puts a dangerous strain on his spine. His hands are swollen, and a subtle peek reveals that his ankles are also puffy. The edema must tax his heart. It stands to reason that other organ functions could not help but suffer impairment from the crowding.

Bucky shivers. Sure, a kid would be nice, but not if it took Steve away from him. His body couldn’t handle this. No way.

Another muffled punch from within tags the Asset in his side. He does not wince, but moves stiffly away and waves fiercely at the bartender to hurry him along. It accomplishes nothing, but when he adds a shining quarter to his waving hand, _that_ gets results.

He turns to give Steve a thumbs-up. 

The skinny man and his partner have noticed. They are smiling at him. Why?

“L’chaim,” the skinny one says wryly. “All the joys you have to look forward to. Look, ye mighty, and despair.”

The partner digs his elbow into the skinny one’s ribs. “Don’t listen to him. Or me. It’s not easy, but it’s worth it.”

They’re not making any sense, and the Asset is glad to finally have the glass of soda water in hand as an excuse to take his leave. He holds the glass carefully to his chest as he pushes back through the crowd. Though he has to keep his eyes on the mass of humanity in his way lest they cause him to spill, he looks back up at Steve as often as possible.

It’s a good thing he does. When he is halfway across the floor, Steve disappears.

Bucky doesn’t drop the glass, though it’s a near thing, but he presses it on a surprised dancer and breaks into a run. Cries of alarm and indignation follow him, but he doesn’t care. He is fully his persona, one hundred percent James Buchanan Barnes, as he bolts for the entrance of the club.

Outside, the cool night air is a blessed relief, but that doesn’t matter. Steve is on his knees in the shadow by the door, emptying his stomach into a storm drain.

“Steve, what the hell,” Bucky says out loud. 

He’s on his knees too before he can think twice. His body knows what to do; it shelters Steve from behind and moves as if to hold his hair back. He supports Steve as Steve retches again with nothing left to bring up but strings of drool; he rubs Steve’s back and says soothing, meaningless things.

Steve shudders, but doesn’t retch again. “I’m fine.”

“The hell you are,” Bucky says. He takes a better hold on Steve to keep him from pitching forward. He looks fish pale and sickly, and Bucky cannot do anything except kiss him in relief that he’s still alive. He doesn’t give a damn about the taste. “You should have said.”

Steve gives him a baleful look. “I tried.”

“Maybe next time think about using the actual words ‘hey, I don’t feel well’. I can’t read your mind, you dumb punk.” Bucky gives him a light shake. His heart is pounding in his throat with the effects of the adrenaline burst; it’s the way it sometimes races, terrified of how much he loves this fragile creature. “You scared the hell out of me.”

Steve only shakes his head, and shivers. He’s pressing his hand to his stomach again.

“Think you’re going to upchuck again?”

“Probably,” Steve mutters. He looks up then, sets his jaw,and says simply, “I’m pregnant.”

And the Asset’s brain—freezes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The basic idea here is that Bucky/the Asset unwittingly switches between consciousnesses. When he's engaged with Steve, he's increasingly human inside his head. When he's on his own, he slips into a more dispassionate persona.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _I’m pregnant_.
> 
> It’s the first time Steve has said it out loud. The words echo weirdly in his ears.
> 
> He looks up at Bucky, and waits for him to react. Which — he doesn’t. He’s gone blank, but not just still. There’s nothing in his face. There’s emptiness in his eyes. His mouth is a flat, expressionless line.
> 
> “Did you hear me?” Steve asks.
> 
> Bucky doesn’t even blink.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for some dub-con elements (Loki/Fandral) and for rape-related threats in the last scene.

_I’m pregnant_.

It’s the first time Steve has said it out loud. The words echo weirdly in his ears.

He looks up at Bucky, and waits for him to react. Which — he doesn’t. He’s gone blank, but not just still. There’s nothing in his face. There’s emptiness in his eyes. His mouth is a flat, expressionless line.

“Did you hear me?” Steve asks.

Bucky doesn’t even blink. 

Steve wants to get up, but in this smaller, weaker body, he’s not sure his wobbly legs will hold him. The humiliation makes his face burn. It’s not the first time he’s been on his knees in a gutter. He fought a lot; he got knocked down; it happened.

But back then, Bucky was always — always — right there, or hurrying to him. He’d give Steve a hand up and scold him until he’d blistered both of Steve’s ears.

Now, Bucky does nothing. Just stares. Steve searches his face. Bucky’s not totally expressionless, is he? Maybe he would be to people who didn’t know him as well as Steve does, but Steve sees a flickering flame in the depths of Bucky’s eyes. It might be rage, might be fear, might be both, but _anything_ is better than the nothing he’s gotten so far.

He holds out his hand. “Help me up.”

The flame flickers. Bucky doesn’t move, but his lips do part around words. “Disallowed.”

Steve shakes his head, positive he didn’t hear that right. “Come again?”

Bucky’s so still. Steve has never seen him so motionless. Even when he takes two hasty steps backward, they seem almost mechanical. Like he’s got pistons instead of joints. The fear — and it is fear, Steve’s sure of it now — flickers again. “It isn’t — I was told—” He’s white as milk. “You can’t be.”

Now Steve’s getting mad. He gets himself up, glad his center of gravity hasn’t shifted too much yet, and steadies himself on his wobbly knees. Feels an awful lot like gearing up for a fight. He has to push down the impulse to ball his fists. “‘Can’t be’ doesn’t make a hell of a lot of difference to ‘is’, Buck.”

They’re getting some odd looks from people leaving the dance hall, and others on their way in, but Bucky doesn’t seem to register them. He’s backed up another couple of steps, too far away for Steve to take a swing at.

It’s pretty tempting to try all the same. “Come on,” Steve says instead. He assays a step toward Bucky. “As much as we’ve gotten up to together, you had to know it was at least a possibility. I’m stronger than I used to be. We can make it work.”

Bucky goes motionless again. “Wasn’t supposed to happen.” He blinks rapidly, his expression shifting from terror to blankness and back again. “Don’t follow me.”

“What?” Forgetting himself, Steve presses forward, his hand outstretched. “Bucky, come on. I can’t do this by myself. I need you with me.”

Bucky gives Steve another of those awful, dispassionate stares and says, “Run.”

“Bucky!” Steve calls after him, but it’s already too late. Bucky’s broken from his stiff-legged statue pose and taken off, and if Steve thought he moved smoothly and swiftly before, that’s nothing compared to how he runs now — fast, silent, and gone.

Leaving Steve there alone, with fat drops of rain beginning to fall all around him.

Steve clenches his jaw. He wants to run, to catch up with Bucky and sock him in the nose. What’s the matter with him? He’s heard of breaking a guy’s brains with a shock like this, but that’s not like Bucky. No. Something’s wrong. Let him catch his breath, and he —

Drops again, retching. 

Steve had thought he had nothing left to bring up, but his guts prove him wrong. He’s spitting strings of bile by the time he’s done, clammy and shaking. The terror that something is wrong makes his stomach twist into knots, but that’s nowhere near as bad as the helplessness.

He can’t run after Bucky. Not in this body.

“You happy about this?” he demands, glaring up at the sky. People stare; let them. “You want to come and gloat?”

No answer. Steve didn’t really expect one, but he’d hoped. Wherever Loki is, whatever game he’s playing, he must be loving this.

The hell with him.

Steve’s jaw sets again, but this time he uses that stubbornness to force himself to his feet and turns himself away from the direction Bucky ran in. He’s taken care of himself for what seems like a long time now. He can get himself home safely.

He’ll be fine.

* * *

“What are you laughing at?”

Loki glances up from his woven loom of words. “Was I laughing?”

Perhaps he was. He can’t be bothered to care. The game has progressed, and the spice is as sweet as anticipated. He could end it now, yes. It would be the most exquisite cruelty.

And yet…

“If not laughing, then smirking,” Fandral says. He’s abandoned his guarding post outside Loki’s cell and come closer, near enough that he needn’t shout to be heard. As if anything that happens in these dungeons, these gilded cages, can escape the notice of Odin’s all-seeing eye. 

Unless one has the foresight to lay groundwork and safeguards. 

Midgardians would call them “blind spots”, a bit of terminology Loki finds both amusing and appropriate. He prefers the term “shields”, or would if shields didn’t leave a bitter taste in his mouth at the moment. No matter; they serve the same purpose. When he chooses, Loki can pull a brief cloud of wool over Odin’s eye. Not for long, and not frequently, but it is possible. He’s saved those clouds to cover his tracks with this little game, and for Frigga’s rare visits. She taught him how, after all.

Loki plucks at the edge of one now, making it ready just in case. “Was I smirking?”

“You know damned well you were.” Fandral comes closer still. His reputation is for being reckless, a rogue who chooses to serve his lord with wits and sword, full of dashing and derring-do and other rubbish that makes Loki weary to think about. 

It also makes him stubborn and difficult to control, and _that_ is the meat Loki likes best. 

He marks his place in his book and lays it aside. “If you don’t like the set of my face, you’re welcome to try and wipe it clean. You won’t find it easy.”

Fandral scoffs. “I remember you of old, Loki. You’re not a match for me.”

“Am I not?” Loki slides off the simple camp bed he’s been allowed in his cell, and onto the floor. He lands in artful, deliberate disarray, his long legs stretched out before him, and purrs inside as he watches Fandral drink in the sight. It isn’t even conscious. “I remember matching you very well.”

The coin drops. “You—” Fandral sputters, but for all his seeming indignation he can’t look away from Loki’s legs. “Are you seriously suggesting—”

“I? I suggest nothing,” Loki says. He draws his hand idly, carelessly, from knee to thigh. “There’s little enough to do in a cell. If you don’t want me to smirk, then redirect my focus.”

He’s almost hooked now. Fandral comes closer. “Are you casting a spell on me? How can do you do that, from in there?”

“No spell but that which you summon from your own memories,” Loki promises. It’s even true. He turns to lie on his side, body open and exposed, his toes pointed and his breathing quickening. “And you remember this, I know. You remember this in the dreams that leave you aching for release, that wake you with your hand already fisted around your cock. You remember me when you come, in that glorious tenth of a second when the world goes white and pure. You remember the taste of my mouth when you drink deeply of dark, sweet wine.”

Fandral shakes his head, but he’s come nearly within arm’s reach while Loki spoke. He’s caught. He puts out his hand to touch the cell, and draws back just in time. “You torment me to no purpose. You can’t come out, and I can’t come in.”

“Can’t you?” Loki’s lips curve into a sharp-edged smile. He takes hold of the cloud, and draws it so gently down that what will surely happen next will never be noticed. Just as Odin has never noticed his games with Captain and Soldier — or if he has noticed, then he hasn’t cared, and it all comes to the same end.

Loki rubs at his chest, at his breast, and allows the illusion of his clothing to melt away. There is a power in nudity, and he knows how to use it. 

“Perhaps you can.” He glides his palm down his hip, his thigh. “Try it and find out.”

Fandral has only an ounce of resistance left to him, and he uses it to balk one last time. “Why do you want this? Are you that starved for entertainment, or is this part of some plan?”

Loki shakes his hair forward so that it drapes over his shoulders, and looks up at Fandral from beneath his lashes. “Yes.”

“To both?”

“Yes,” Loki says silkily. There’s a hunger inside him. It’s woken before, in the odd flashes of could-be that his magic shows him. It gnaws at his belly now, making him reckless, making him wild. And if it serves his purpose, why should he deny it? He holds out a hand. “Come.”

“What does it matter to you?” Fandral asks, but he’s reaching back.

“More than you will ever know,” Loki replies. He slides one arm between the restricting bars of his cage to point the way for his former paramour, his current prey, and conceals the effort it costs him with a small moan. “Distract me well, handsome Fandral.”

Fandral shakes his head, as if disbelieving himself, but he has ever been a fool for valor. One step up, and he is inside. “Distract you from what?”

“Life and death, and curiosity.” Loki catches Fandral by the arms, drawing the man fully down upon him. He’s hard and ready, and Loki is ravenous. The game is not ended yet. “What else is there, in the end?”

* * *

Steve’s almost made it home — he’s on his block, even — when he hears it. It’d be more accurate to say he senses it. He’s felt it dozens of times in the real world, in a small body and in a big one. The prickling at the back of his neck that says _someone’s watching you. Someone’s got plans for you, and you won’t like them_.

He looks over his shoulder, nice and casual, as if he’s just idly curious.

A couple of punks are staring at him. Tough guys who think they’re tougher than they are; Steve knows the type. Greasy, unwashed, and believing that makes their muscles more impressive. The kinds of guys who shout rude things at women to try and scare them into compliance.

“Breeder,” one mutters to the other, elbowing him. “See that?”

“Got a ring on his finger.”

“So? Anyone else with a claim on him ain’t here right now, are they?” The loudmouthed one has noticed Steve studying him by now. He leers, and raises one arm to show off the muscle. “That’s right, sugar. You need a real man to take care of you, don’t you?”

Steve speaks before he thinks, words that would have been better backed up in his old-new body. “Save yourselves some trouble and keep moving, boys.”

 _Damn it_.

They react the way guys like that — bullies — always do. Like it’s a challenge. Both push themselves away from the wall they’ve been holding up and saunter toward him, their eyes glittering with feral intent. “Mouthy little punk,” one murmurs. He cups his groin and rolls his hips. “Yeah, you need it, don’t you?”

“Not gonna happen.” Steve stands his ground. There’s never any use in running. He’s a fighter, no matter what body he’s in. “Walk away now.”

“Oh no, pretty boy, it’s gonna happen.” They’re circling him now. “I’m gonna fuck you raw, and you’re gonna beg me for more.”

Steve’s pulse is up, pounding, pumping hard. “I said no.”

One of them throws a punch, and when it lands it’s harder than Steve anticipated. It’s a flare of pain that shocks him into stumbling sideways. He loses his balance on the slippery street, and he’s down on one knee again. Instinct makes him protect his belly, and it’s then — only then — that reality sinks in.

If they hurt Steve, they don’t just hurt _him_.

Steve comes up with both fists knotted and flailing, but what worked in his old body just doesn’t in this one. The bullies avoid his attempted blows with ease, laughing and hooting at each other. They’re calling him things that make him see red, and he tries again, but they sidestep his swing.

One of them spits at him, backhands him, and it sends him down face-first on the street.

Steve pushes hard against the ground, struggling to get himself upright. He should be able to do that much, shouldn’t he? But he can’t. His knees won’t work right. Too shaky. 

The bullies think he’s down for the count. They take a stand on either side of him, leering down. One’s got his hand at his belt buckle, and the other is cupping himself.

“That’s right,” he says. “You just lie there like a good breeder and let me do the—”

Steve’s got his hand up to shield himself when the man disappears. Flies sideways, faster than a man should be able to fall. No, not fall. He’s been thrown, and Steve knows it for a fact because he sees it this time — Bucky seizing the other jerk by his neck and shaking him like a bad dog, then hurling him into the wall with a mighty clatter. The first one’s not moving, but the second comes up with an ugly snarl.

Bucky kicks him in the head, and he goes down for good. He might be dead.

Steve doesn’t give a damn.

Bucky stands over him, shaking so hard his teeth chatter. He clamps his arms around himself and squeezes. The rain’s soaked him clear through to the skin, and his longer hair hangs in fat strands like octopus tentacles around his face. He’s paler than death, wide-eyed with panic, and though his mouth opens and closes when he looks at Steve, he isn’t getting any words out.

Something unclenches in Steve’s chest. He can hold a grudge closer than his only coat during a hard winter, but he can’t hold out against Buck. Not for long. Not when he looks like this. Like he’s on the verge of tears, but he doesn’t know how to cry.

Steve pushes himself to his knees, and then to his feet. He’s not too bruised to mend, and he’s not bleeding anywhere. He holds out his arms so Bucky can see that for himself as he walks closer.

Bucky doesn’t stop him, not even when Steve has walked them into one another and put his arms around Bucky’s waist. Bucky finally moves at that, settling his hands lightly on Steve’s shoulders — only lightly at first. When his palms touch Steve’s skin, he breaks, and nothing but luck keeps Bucky from knocking him over with how hard he grabs Steve and hangs on.

He’s still shivering as Steve rubs at his back. “I have to take care of you.”

“You are,” Steve says. “You will. You’re here with me now, aren’t you? That’s all I need.”

Bucky swallows hard and hides his face against Steve’s shoulder.

Steve isn’t taking that for an answer. He jabs Bucky in the ribs. “So it isn’t what we figured on happening. We can manage, you and me. Like we always do.”

Bucky doesn’t answer in words, but Steve can feel the struggle going on inside him. He freezes briefly, so strangely still again, but then with a shudder he melts back into human softness. 

He lifts his head, and there’s wonder in his eye. “I’m still here.”

“You are,” Steve says. “And you’re gonna stay. So am I. We can do this together, you and me. Are you with me? All you’ve gotta do is say. We’ll figure out the rest as we go along.” He tilts his head back so he can watch Bucky’s face carefully. “Are you in?”

“I don’t know how,” Bucky says, halfway between that strange statue-self and his real self.

“You think I do? As long as we’re together, we’ll figure it out.” Steve takes Bucky’s hand. “But you’ve gotta say it, Buck. Are you with me?”

Bucky swallows once, and hesitantly, almost reverently lays his hand on Steve’s stomach. 

Steve lets out a slow breath, and covers Bucky’s hand with his own. “Say it.”

“Yeah.” The whisper ghosts through Bucky’s lips. “I’m with you.”

He wraps his arms around Steve again and squeezes him, hangs on with shaking limbs. “Steve, you gotta be careful, so careful,” he says over and over again. “I can’t lose you, okay? I won’t lose you.”

Steve soothes him, holds him, and murmurs quietly to him. The things he says are partly true.

They’re partly not, because he’s convinced of it now. There’s something going on here. Something wrong with Bucky.

And no matter what Loki had in mind, Steve’s going to figure it out.

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Coleridge's "Kubla Khan".
> 
> Con-crit welcome, as is pointing out typos, goofs, things that need to be tagged, etc.


End file.
